To Sergie, With Love
Cold eyes dark and hallow, his voice was barely audible. To those present and listening, it came to them as a signal of an impending doomsday beyond what they had ever imagined. The quieter the man's remonstrations, the more dire their situation.
"It was my specific order that those circuits be completely rewired and those boards rerouted. When I leave I expect my orders to be followed. You will immediately dispense with whatever these extra-curricular activities you seem to have added to your schedule are and return to your duties as specified. Is there a need for clarification?"
"No, Sir," came a unified, but muted response.
"Get this mess cleaned up: if there's an accident because of unauthorized item in this lab, I'll see to it that each and every one of you works watch and watch for a week." Despite its lack of volume, his voice echoed and filled the frozen room. They dared not breathe for the chance it be taken as any type of response.
"While we're chatting," he added with a menacing shift of his jaw, "we will not be having a repeat of our performance on this morning's drills. It does not matter that we have unrepaired damage; we apparently need to be reminded that we don't treat drills as meaningless. We will begin rerunning today's drills beginning tomorrow until our ratings are acceptable, and we will repeat them until they remain that way."
"Yes, Sir."
"Sir," came a gray voice from within the group. "What rating will be acceptable?"
The Lieutenant's eyes pivoted until they rested on the man who had spoken. It set well with Chekov that Griffin, like the rest of the team he'd assembled, were outright dauntless. "When I decide it's acceptable," he replied tersely.
He began to relax his ramrod straight back when suddenly the entire defense team before him sprang to their feet. Turning, he nodded to the Captain, who was poised in the doorway of the defense lab.
"Good morning, Sir."
"Good morning," Kirk replied amiably as he stepped in and the door slid shut behind him. "Mr. Chekov, gentlemen. At ease." Kirk swept his eyes over the lab before smiling. "I thought it time I stop by and congratulate the defense team on the profound strides you've made since the launching of the Enterprise B: strides which will affect the way things are done in the rest of the Fleet for years to come. You should be proud of your accomplishments." He hesitated before continuing. "I certainly hope I can expect you to continue with the superb effort that I've come to expect from you."
"Thank you, Sir," the team answered resoundly.
"Mr. Chekov, I'd like a moment when you've finished."
The Lieutenant nodded stiffly. "Yes, Sir. I'll be done in a moment," he replied hollowly.
"Very good, then I'll wait for you." Nodding to the team a final time, Kirk stepped into the corridor and strolled a few steps as the door closed behind him.
The Lieutenant that turned to the defense team had a stony face and a visible bristle went through the assembled crew.
"Five O'clock," Chekov bit out, his voice a deathly whisper. He paused long enough to look at every person in the room. "Five O'clock."
He swung out of the room briskly, his stomach wrenching into a knot as he stopped short in front of the Captain.
"You wished to see me, Sir?"
"Yes," Kirk said, turning to face him. Hazel eyes scrutinized the Lieutenant a long moment, the tight jaw and dark expression that faced him disappointingly expected.
"Captain," the younger man forestalled anything the commanding officer would have said. "The efficiency and accuracy ratings for the Security Team in the drills this morning were completely unacceptable. I have taken immediate steps to correct this and I do not anticipate a repetition of the problem."
"Yes," Kirk observed. "Your team's showing in the drills were dismal. Have the circuits been rewired yet?"
"They continue to work on them, Sir. The second panel will be completed by five."
"The second?" the Captain asked, startled.
Chekov shifted slightly, the knot in his stomach twisting tighter. "It's very delicate work, Sir."
"I see," Kirk said dryly. "I certainly hope the Klingons understand that and hold off on attacking while your team's still working."
"We'll work on them continuously and see to it that they're finished as soon as possible, Sir."
"Do you have reservations about your team's ability to complete their assigned tasks, or are your reservations in your abilities as an officer to motivate them inspiring you to inform me that you, yourself are planning to do their work? I expect better from you, Chekov."
The younger man's jaw tightened, straightening as he knotted his hands fiercely behind his back. He forced the color to remain in his face even as all the warmth drained from his body. "Yes, Sir," he finally answered in practiced, measured tones.
"You're off-duty today, Lieutenant," Kirk bit out. "Stay away from the Security Team: that's an order."
"Sir," Chekov replied stiffly. "I informed them I would be inspecting their progress at five p.m."
The Captain scowled sourly. "I'm not going to countermand the orders of one of my officers, but I don't expect such an inspection to take more than ten minutes. Is that understood?"
Insides cold, the junior officer swallowed to moisten his parched mouth. "Yes, Sir." Hell, Chekov thought morosely. He's yelling at me for not doing my job, and for doing it.
The Captain nodded, his face lightening, and shifted. "Good."
Clearly banned from purging himself with work, Chekov sought out the silence and solitude of his cabin and bent himself stiffly the desk chair, willing the tension to drain out of him.
He was haunted by the withheld looks and averted eyes of the Security Team. They hated him, the Security Chief observed. It was not that he blamed them, certainly. On days like today it was as if he couldn't bring them to understand what he needed from them or motivate them to meet his standards.
There were times his standards were impossibly high, and he knew it was something he had to purposefully check as an officer. The perfection he demanded of himself he could not expect of those who served him. When the Security Team weren't sending him menacing looks, they seemed to simply do their work with quiet avoidance of their Chief.
He heaved a dramatic sigh and leaned forward, propping his elbow on the desk and thrusting his cheek on his fist. The Security Team hated him, he thought petulantly again, and the Captain was clearly not any more pleased with him than his team was. The man had a ship to run and he had to rely on the efficiency of his officers to ensure the seamless operation of its departments. If one department was performing sub par it could mean a catastrophe at a critical moment.
The team was unhappy, Kirk was unhappy, and he was stuck miserably and irreparably in the middle of it. He didn't blame the team, he didn't blame Kirk. In fact, the only person he could find blaring fault with was himself.
Chekov heaved another sigh and pushed his other cheek onto his other fist. He sat there in the silent, dim cabin sulking petulantly for a long time. It did little to ease the tension that had been building lately.
It was the nature of a junior officer's position to be in the middle. They were simply there to see to it the Captain's orders were carried out--cleanly, efficiently, in a way the Captain had to give neither thought or notice to.
Chekov had always known that, of course, and had always wanted to be a command officer in Starfleet. During the past few months, however, he had been seeing an increasingly open, and realistic view of the world around him and his own limitations.
The Chief Navigator's post had been completely different than this, he thought miserably. Chekov had come aboard the Enterprise with a reputation as a boy wonder in navigation preceding him. Fresh out of the Academy, as a command officer he was required to rotate through all the ship--serving in each department before taking his final post. Reilly had searched him out during this period though and dragged him into celestial navigation to meet the rest of the navigation team. Before he took his post he was already well liked and respected. When the Chief's position had opened, it was the older and more senior Reilly who had led the burst of cheers at his appointment.
As Chief Navigator he had been a part of the ship's core command team. Security was only a support department. Comparatively, he spent little time on the bridge now and was not often included in briefing meetings. They were still his friends, but--frankly--he often found himself laughing at inside jokes he didn't understand.
Chekov pressed his lips together unhappily. It wasn't the same. Starfleet was what he had expected, but he had begun to suspect he had sadly misjudged himself. As an officer he had to get the crewmen and junior officers to work well and effectively, had to make sure the Captain's needs were met and make sure the Captain was always informed. Now, because of him, the team was angry and miserable, Kirk was angry and miserable, and he was the buffing pad between them: being punched from either side.
This was a wretched life, he thought. A wretched, wretched life. Chekov kicked absently at the floor, noticing dismally that his boots were in need of a polish.
Damn it, he growled inwardly. Other men did it. How did one exist in this intermibly horrid state? Who could endure such a life of glorified servitude: for what else could one call enforcing another's person's orders endlessly?
He closed his eyes and shuddered in misery as the name from his past filtered through his mind unbidden. Sergie... Biting his lip, he prevented the small, sad smile of despair from appearing on his face.
Andrie Chekov held the command post where Pavel had come from and Sergie was the officer who passed the orders down. Fellow officers, best friends: their relationship brought Kirk and Spock to mind.
Chekov breathed tentatively and swallowed, drawing his eyes open. A wistful smile traced over his face in the dim silence of his empty cabin and he reached out and pulled the small tarnished brass object off the nearby shelf. He turned the crude brass whistle over in his fingers: the bosun's pipe whose three-foot chain was always slung around Sergei's neck—the whistle itself in his pocket. It was coarse, like Sergei; but all the same it was intricate in its very design—like Sergei; Chekov thought in sudden fierceness. The short, broad Russian man was also Pavel's godfather. He had always been dearer to him than a grandparent.
Hovering in the perpetual nether age marked simply as old and wise, Sergei was the first to proudly admit he was no more than a coarse Russian peasant. To prove the matter, he had a full repertoire of languages, gathered from sewers across the ends of the universe, which he was more than willing to flourish upon any ears that were in range. He had taught them all to Pavel, along with everything else he thought a boy should know that his father was restrained by teaching his son by polite society.
Sergie had existed the entire span of Chekov's life in the maddening phase of in-between command Chekov was now struggling with. There the man flourished and thrived.
The post of junior officer suited the man as much as the man suited the post. Not burdened by Starfleet regulations, he had his own unique methods for motivating his crew. Sergie flourished on their head a constant stream of colorful--if often improbable--descriptions of themselves and their work progression in the midst of his whistle's screech. In the worst of circumstances, he demanded that they, themselves explain to him what exact deficiencies plagued them and walked away from their answers muttering in annoyance.
The whistle bit into Chekov's hand now. The crew that worked under Sergie had an efficiency that was unparralled. Unparralleled as well was each and every man's love for the officer not one of them took seriously.
Chekov shoved the whistle back onto the shelf. The looks his men were giving him lately could not be mistaken for affection of any kind.
Suddenly, he was angry: furious at himself, at the world, and at how things had turned out. This wasn't how he had planned his life. This wasn't what he wanted, he thought angrily. Not what he wanted at all: and Pavel Chekov was used to getting what he wanted. He had no qualms about admitting that he was a stubborn, spoiled brat. An adorable only child with endless charm, he had been doted on by both his family and the men that worked for his father. Chekov had learned early on to expect life to go his way, for the universe itself to bend to his will.
"Pavel, you made it clear the day you were born who was in charge," his father was often heard to observe with amusement.
The elder Chekov's amusement at his son and quiet, gentle love kept him from becoming intolerable, because the very gentleness instilled in him a guilt so overpowering it was painful. It did not bring about any basic change in his very nature, however: his intense sulks and moods would storm within him; his temper tantrums would rise into a crescendo that threatened to consume him. Andrie Chekov would walk away silently from his son's passions at these times, disproval on his face, but it was hard to take the recrimination seriously when the sound of his uproarious laughter could be heard from the distance.
This was not Sergie's way, though.
The old man would slam a balled fist to the side of his head, knocking the boy both down and to his senses. A stream of names would follow, which brought an enthusiastic reply and soon the boy and the old man were screaming outlandish insults at each other: Pavel having forgotten completely what started the whole process.
They had their different methods, but both men deftly humbled Pavel, making it clear exactly how important any one person was in the ultimate scheme of the universe.
Surely, Sergie was more creative than just knocks upside the boy's head. Pavel had also been dropped unceremoniously into available bodies of water and piles of laundry, had buckets and barrels of potatoes and various insundry vegetables dumped on top of him. He had once, in fact, even shoved the boy into the branches of a tree, pronouncing the soil of Mother Russia herself could not bear to be sullied by his touch. Pavel couldn't remember what his exact offense had been, but knew Sergie had only to turn away before he had launched himself onto the man's back in revenge.
The action brought the man's instantaneous protests and swears that he was no pack mule and was far too old to be treated as one. Pavel smiled softly at the memory. Sergie had a long white, beard, a weathered face, and thickly calloused hands, but he was by no means as decrepit as he tried to make people believe. He had stayed happily nestled on his back, the man toting him about for hours: even goading the stubborn boy into staying there so they could entertain each other.
Why did people leave their families and loved ones to thrust themselves into the wretched emptiness of space? he thought miserably. Who would choose to distance themselves from those who had spent a lifetime developing such a fundamental understanding of them? Why the hell would anyone choose to live like this?!
Chekov jammed his heel into floor loudly and growled miserably low in his throat. He ground his teeth into his jaw in despair. It was time, he decided, to admit he simply wasn't Starfleet material. Yes, he loved Starfleet, but how much longer could he try to exist in this in-between world where he made no one happy, least of all himself.
He purposely let out a loud, dramatic sigh: a sound that seemed to take on life of its own in the dim cabin. There wasn't anyone to be impressed by his misery but himself, yet that, in itself, seemed to be enough. He simply wasn't meant to command, he decided, he didn't have it in him.
After a long while, he leaned forward and slowly pulled out a carefully stored piece of writing paper and an ink pen. He began a careful, laborious task of writing his resignation. The paper, the ink etched across it, seemed more real than anything in his life had in a long time. He belabored the process, taking an eternity in the silent, dim room to draw out in detailed word descriptions just what the problems were and why he couldn't go on here--if only for the Fleet's sake.
Chekov settled back and let his breath seep out slowly as he laid the pen down. It was done now: complete and final. On paper it was reasonable and intelligent. On paper it was logical and the only course of action.
And he was seized with utter, complete sinister triumph. Life was on his terms. He had always wanted to be in Star Fleet, Chekov thought tensely. He had never even considered anything else. He had also never considered that he would be anything else than a command officer. If he wasn't going to command, he didn't want to be in the Fleet at all, he thought with stubborn misery.
He should have never left the navigation department. What the hell had prompted him to transfer to security?
We're all going to die. He remembered how the thought had seized him violently. We're all going to die. We're all going to die. It had repeated itself over and over again like a mantra as he stared blindly at the actions of the Security Team. Captain Kirk's command creativity had always instilled Chekov with a sense of awe. Running the Enterprise into the most intense of battle drills with simulated massive damage held no originality: but doing so with every section chief assigned to observe in a mad jumble was sheer brilliance. At the time, the Chief Navigator hadn't worried for a moment what the Chief of Environmental Services might think of his Navigation Team. He had also not given a thought, however, that he might see anything of particular interest in the Security Team's actions. He had participated in the drills as a cadet, after all.
The Enterprise's Security Team had followed procedure to the letter, and were both swift and profoundly efficient. We're all going to die, was what he feverantly thought at the time, the knowledge of how well they had performed by Starfleet standards making the thought more desperate.
Kirk had not understood Chekov's request to transfer departments when he received his promotion and the information that the Captain had requested he continue in the complement of the new Enterprise-B. "You're the finest navigator in the fleet, Pavel."
"No change in rank or position will change that."
A slight, wry smile touched the Captain's face in response. Kirk had understood the demand that the transfer come with right to oversee the design and construction of the security and defense areas of the new ship. It wasn't necessary that Kirk understood Chekov's reason for transferring: he understood Chekov.
The new Security Chief had gotten clearance for the new designs; he had even worked out with Spock a different duty schedule for his team than the rest of the ship so he could run drills before every shift--every day. Chekov had mentioned to no one, however, the strange, downright bizarre drills he had come up with, not any more than the perversions of age-old Starfleet procedures he implemented.
The Security Team had been pulling on ropes, conducting bucket brigades, passing heavy items in meaningless circles of humanity and playing relay games that they had clearly decided were drug up somewhere from the Russian officer's childhood. What was degrading however, was how the Security Team had somehow been regulated to the ship's manual labor force. Whenever tools, equipment, ship's parts, needed to be passed about or carried up companionways: it was the Security Team that now did it. They never used anti-grav sleds, they did everything by hand: even in the massive ship's cargo holds and Purser's stores. In fact, twice they had spent their day shifting the cargo across the hold only to be ordered to shift it back when they were done.
Only the team's fear of the depths of their new Chief's insanity kept any hint of it from drifting out of what they considered a binding commitment to their private asylum. They grumbled among themselves, of course. Chekov seemed to always come into the room just in time to miss the complaints and questions of his mental stability, so they never heard recriminations from him. Not verbally.
His hollow, dark eyes just stared at them for an extended period of silence. They went back to work under the stare and with the overpowering wish that he would say something: anything. Hell, it was obvious he knew.
Then it was as if the exhaustion of the team and the raw nerves of their Chief were going to meet in an anti-matter/matter explosion. In response, instead of their regular morning drills, Chekov ordered Ensign Nordel to run a standard all-hands battle drill for the Security Team.
Ecstatic relief overwhelmed every member of the Security Team as they set about their duties with gusto. Weapons, phasers, torpedoes, shields...They were finally doing what they were trained to do, what they were meant to do, what they knew they did so well: and they were bound and determined to make a clear demonstration of this to their new Security Chief.
Then one of them stopped, then another, and then groups here and there. Finally, the entire Security Team stood motionless as confusion shadowed across their faces.
Every eye turned in astonishment to the Security Chief leaning against the bulkhead. Arms folded across his chest, he stared back at them sedately.
They knew. Something fundamental had changed in them and in the way they worked together.
The very fiber of their beings had become meshed into a cohesive organism. A cellular connection bound them now so they worked instinctively as a single unit, without intrusion of needless thoughts. No greater ease came to individual's mind than the intrinsic, firm knowledge that somewhere you had an intrinsic place.
The way they prepared this ship for battle now seemed klutzy, and they stumbled and fouled up each other's tasks in trying to do so.
Then Chekov smiled: a cock-eyed, wild, brilliant smile of sheer triumph that sparkled in his dark eyes. Now they all knew.
"Ensign Nordel," he said as he stood from the wall. "Rework the Security Team duty schedule immediately to accommodate two hour watches for the next forty-eight hours."
He saw their faces turn white instantly. Such a schedule was plainly inhuman.
"I want a skeleton team on for the next forty-eight hours. I'll inform the Captain and First Officer."
"Aye, Sir."
Chekov's gaze focused on Nordel's green eyes for a moment so he didn't see the team reaction. He had, in effect, given the entire team an extra two days off. He drew his eyes over to the team finally.
"The entire Security Team is to report back here in forty-eight hours to repeat these drills." He hesitated. "Let's show the rest of the Fleet why the Enterprise's crew has always been the finest ship in the Fleet."
Chekov sighed at the memory. He bit his lip then, picking up the Native American Chief's headdress off the shelf. He drew his finger along the writing on its headband.
"Chief of Security."
He'd found the ridiculous thing in his office the next day with a note saying he'd earned the trappings of his position.
Damn you, Sergie, he thought as he put it down. Damn you.
Although the old man blustered and yelled in an obvious attempt to scare people, it was Sergie's blunt grasp and utterance of the truth that left an impression on everyone.
"I don't want you to go." The man's gray eyes were glassy as he spit out the announcement.
Everybody had been thinking it: he could see it in their eyes as well. Only Sergie said it. Just this once, Pavel wished he hadn't--because he wondered if he agreed.
"Sergie, you've known I was leaving since..."
"You were born," the old man concluded, nodding soberly.
The boy--now a young man--had flushed slightly. It was true that Starfleet was all he could ever remember talking about. It was embarrassing, however, that family tall-tales even claimed his first word was 'star' and that the only thing that would soothe his fussing as an infant was to take him out to gaze at the night sky. "I was born with stars in my eyes," he repeated.
"No," Sergie corrected. "Stars in here," and he thumped the boy on his chest with two fingers.
Pavel stared at the man's fingers: they were the same height now. He had always considered his father his best friend, but--perhaps because of his cutthroat honesty--it was Sergie he had always been able to come to with anything at all. Even the stupidest things that were consuming his thoughts.
"You know maybe God was trying to tell me he doesn't want me to go into Starfleet."
"Yes," Sergie agreed with great drama. "God has so little to do He spends His time worrying about where you're planning to get a paltry paycheck. He's also stupid enough to think a spoiled brat like you is going to easily going to change your mind."
"It was just an accident," Pavel agreed sheepishly. "God had nothing to do with it."
"Oh, yes, He did," the old man spat back.
Pavel blinked, looking at him with startled, wide eyes. Blasphemy from anyone else, when Sergie claimed to know what God was thinking it seemed to make sense.
The old man thumped him on his chest again, hard enough to hurt this time. "We all knew that you really did want to spend your life in Starfleet." He grinned wryly. "God was making sure you knew it too.
"You could have given up after the accident, but you fought for your life in Starfleet. Don't forget that, Pavel." Suddenly, he had placed his bosun's pipe in Pavel's hand.
"Here, you take this."
Chekov's had clutched the brass whistle in his fingers instinctively, and watched awe-struck as Sergie took the three foot chain from around his neck." Do something for me?" he asked quietly.
He nodded deeply.
"You and I," Sergie said softly. "You've always shared what you were feeling with me. That's over with: they probably don't even have paper on starships for you to write," he muttered under his breath. "But at least..." he stopped as tears began spilling out of his eyes.
"Remember me, Pavel. Remember."
The rough callous' of the old man's hand had brushed over the younger man's smooth flesh. Sergie tapped the object in Pavel's hand after a moment with a sparkle in his eye. "A moody, spoiled little shit like you may find this hard to believe, but not all those people out there in space may have the good sense to like you as we do." He squeezed Pavel's fist around the whistle. "When you decide to throw a massive tantrum about it (and you will), remember, an officer's job is not to be liked.
"An officer's job is to give his crew the ability to do their job well and hold them to the expectations that it will always be done so. They'll earn respect for themselves and that, ultimately, is an officer's job. If you earn respect and good will in return that just means you have a good crew under you. Don't let it go to anyone's head," the man scowled. "And don't be such a brat!"
The memory fading, Chekov looked solemnly over at the whistle and headdress on the shelf. "Lights," he said aloud.
How did Sergie always know just the one right thing to say? All those years ago how did the old man know what he'd be facing now?
Because Sergie faced it every day.
Pavel and his father could talk for hours, enthralled with each other often to the point of straining their voices. Sometimes his thoughts didn't bear discussion, however, he thought as a sly smile started spreading over his features.
Hell, sometimes he just needed a knock upside the head.
Picking up the pen again, he leaned over his resignation and stared at the beautifully written intimate details of how he'd been feeling lately. He wrote in bold, dark letters across the top of it: 'To Sergie, With Love.'
After a pause, he added: 'I remember.'
Chekov finished the preparations and dropped it neatly into the mail slot. He hesitated, drawing his eyes slowly over to the headdress and whistle again. A slow, demonic smile creeping over his face, his body began to shake as the chuckle began and then grew into wild laughter as the idea took hold.
As was his nature, he was meticulous and it took longer than it should have. It was already past five o'clock when he slipped into the Security Team's locker rooms through the back door. The Chekov moved cautiously through the two rooms, peering tentatively around for any straggling inhabitants. There were none. Next door, the entire team was still working on the circuits, though he knew they'd have the work he ordered and more done by now.
The Security Chief stood there in silence and stared at the row after row of security coveralls hanging tranquilly in the lockers. Quietly, he began to place a Native American headband with a single feather in it at each locker.
McCoy deliberately folded his arms across his chest and eyed Kirk with cold blue eyes. "Did you really give Chekov the dressing down of his life this morning?"
The Captain set his jaw firmly without looking at the Doctor. "I most certainly did. Security's ratings on the drills this morning were practically nonexistent."
"The Enterprise's Security Team had other priorities today," Spock observed dryly from the other side of him. "It is my understanding they have been pre-occupied for some time."
"I know!" Kirk spat out. "Okay, I know--I just didn't remember that until after I saw the exercise results. The damage was done: we all know Chekov is conscientious to the point of insanity. If I said nothing to him he would have spent the day writing his resignation, for God's sake."
"Aye," the Chief Engineer agreed, shaking his head with a sympathic look. "And so I imagine banning the lad from the Security areas of the ship drove him out of his mind the entire day."
Kirk sighed with a scowl, showing signs of disagreeing with being the target of his friend's judgment. "If I hadn't he would have been in here every fifteen minutes," he insisted fiercely. "And everyone knows it."
There was a mummer of subdued agreement.
Uhura pointedly looked at the Security Team milling about the room before them and then at Kirk. "Yes, Jim," she drawled out languidly. "But it's five twenty. After all they went through, if Pavel Chekov doesn't show up the first surprise birthday party of his life, you're the one who's going to be facing the Security Team's wrath."