Summer Snow
He awoke in a panic, seized by the feeling he'd just been pulled from a nightmare. Lost and disoriented, he lay in the dark trying to grasp just where the hell he was--and why. Wood creaked and moaned about him, the rolling of the floor carrying the muffled sounds of men working through its timbers: pawls clanking, lines screeching, voices, and the peculiar slap of bare feet on wet planking. The heaviness of the stale, briny air hanging in the room around him was the final link that chased the confusion away. Human sweat and bilge water combined to make the conclusion unmistakable: he was on a nineteenth century sailing ship. Judging by the pile of canvas beneath him, he had fallen asleep in the sail locker.
His eyes readjusted themselves to the dimness and focused on a familiar face looming above him. He smiled wanly at what was the obvious cause of his awakening. "Sasha," he acknowledged, and detected now that the sway of the ship had a subtle back surge to it. "Land," he confirmed aloud as he pushed himself to a seated position. "How soon?"
"Within the hour," the man smiled, obvious affection in the deep blue eyes. "How did you know?"
Pavel Chekov laughed, more to himself than for the man's benefit. "I grew up playing games on the deck of this ship: there's no end to the things my arse knows." He picked up the cane resting beside him and studied the grain of its highly polished wood surface. He could not shake the feeling that he was in some kind of nightmare still. The sense of foreboding was suffocating, threatening to well up and consume everything in nameless panic. There was something wrong here...
"No one had seen you for a few hours," the seaman towering above him was saying.
Chekov nodded. Traditional Russians were a communal people by nature. They silently bound themselves into extended families by villages and work groups, and he could not have escaped the concern of the group even if he had wanted to. And he saw no reason he'd want to. The unwavering love and loyalty of his 'family' had saved his sanity on more than one occasion.
"We thought you might want to be on deck for this, Malyenki."
He nodded again, this time a grimness coming into his dark eyes. Sitting was not so bad, standing not much worse: it was the transition which was nearly impossible. He found a gentleness in the gaze that met his, however, and Sasha offered his arms down to him for assistance. They all knew it: they all made adjustments. He smiled silently, latched onto the arms and found himself lifted easily to his feet as though he were a child.
"Thank-you," he murmured as the sharp pain sliced up through his body and into his skull. It fell away as he leaned heavily on his cane: dying to the constant, gnawing ache one felt from a rotting tooth.
"You're welcome, Malyenki."
His life-long nickname grated on his nerves for some reason he could not comprehend.
"Doc's got lunch almost ready," Sasha prattled on obliviously, leading the way aft to the companionway. "Although this close to land, it won't be much, you know that..."
What land? Chekov suddenly wondered, his slow, uneven gait seeming even more awkward than usual as he followed the man. Panic overtook him again as he searched the recesses of his mind and could not find the knowledge of what land it was they were expected to sight nor where they had come from and why. What was wrong with him?
He watched the ship's crew as they passed and realized it was St. Petersburg that they had sighted. It was not that he remembered this fact. He saw it in the hurried way the men around him were finishing their work and surging upward on the ship in an imitation of rats on a sinking ship that only men in sight of a home port could perfect.
Even now, they gave way to him on the companionways with a patience he had never seen waver. They allowed him to hang his cane on his arm and pull himself up the ladders with his arms, but his time-consuming and awkward emergence up onto the higher deck was waylaid both times by friendly, unasked for heaves from above. He smiled gratitude as he was set on the main deck, the fresh salt air blasting over him. They streamed past him to the ship's rail and he watched their excited forms as the wind whipped through his hair and knotted it into impossible configurations. It roared in his ears and in the sheets of canvas above him.
Letting the heel of his hand bear his weight on the cane's flat top, his dark eyes stared at the spire of the Admiralty, already in sight on the horizon. A rush of sheer exuberance raced through him as a silent bond he held with that mythical land whispered within. Rhodina...
Panic seized him again, suddenly washing away all else with that gripping sense of foreboding. He shot his eyes upward to scan every line, mast and spar above him. He searched the decks in sight and stood judging the feel of the living thing under him for a sense of what was wrong. He could find nothing.
His eyes came finally to the Admiral standing at the quarterdeck rail: a stalwart blaze of white among the ship's dark timbers. The man's dark eyes lingered on his son standing staring at him, and an unwavering imperturbability crept through in a withheld smile and glint in the recesses of the dark eyes. The calmness of the man steadied Pavel, but he knew his festering sense of unease was shared. Something was wrong....
He shared more with the man than the bonds of genetics and bitter regret filled him whenever he realized that, barring a freak of nature, he would far outlive his best friend. The man's eyes remained on him, soothing his inner unease more than words ever could. The deep brown eyes were the only feature of the dark, swarthy man that Pavel shared. Like his father, he had learned to use them to speak volumes as all Traditional Russians did.
Pavel turned now and made his way to the deck atop the fo'c'sle. The Traditional Russians were a lingering breed of people who had fought for the right to preserve a culture their forefathers had passed down to them. Historic Districts had been set up where they could live in eighteenth century peace as though time passed them by without touching. Unwittingly, they had become a living testament that the peoples of the Russian Federation had once been inherently different from the other people of Earth.
Pavel's father had raised him among these people, instilled in him their heritage and he stood now at the ship's rail sensing the incongruity of whom he was and the technological world to which they were returning. He was alone only momentarily before his father answered his unvoiced bidding. It was reassuring that some things remained constant. This starboard deck rail had always been their private sanctuary in a world with no privacy. There were advantages to being the Admiral's son.
Pavel felt his father's hand rest on his shoulder and he turned to stare at the slender, expressive fingers. Yes, he thought. This is real. It still felt as though he were sleepwalking: being propelled relentlessly toward his doom.
Their eyes shifted in unison to the rigging spider webbed over their heads and to the canvas reefed and straining against the wind. It had once been his job to make those reefs. Once, but not now. Then, he could race them all to the topmast yard and win. Now, using only his arms and his right leg, he could still match their best speed up the shrouds, but once there he was not only useless but a dangerous liability.
He took his eyes from the ship and glanced briefly at the box on the waist of his pants, but made no adjustments. It was not the ship which was wrong: it was him.
"I appreciate the vacation, Papa," he said soberly after a long moment, "but I don't belong here anymore."
"Nonsense," the man growled, dark eyes flashing dangerously. "You grew up working this ship."
Pavel nodded as the sparkling city of antique buildings and canals rose out of the sea before them. "This is home," he intoned, his words embracing people as well as the ship. "Not work."
His father's eyes watched him, reading the subtle changes in his face and manners as easily as if they were spoken words. "Work is more profitable," he noted.
A crooked grin split the younger man's face and he rechecked the box at his waist. "But hardly as enjoyable. I've got to be at the theater by five for that dim-witted twit's piano ballet."
"Stage fright," his father speculated as the cause of the foreboding they both felt within, but neither his voice nor eyes held any belief in that. It was true that Pavel disliked performing, but stage fright had never touched him. He was too sure of himself--and he didn't care enough.
"Reluctance to go, more likely," Pavel observed. "We're three days late: they probably think they're without their star pianist." Not that he cared. Twelve years ago he would have never even considered the offer. Then again, he was no longer the man he had been twelve years ago.
He procured a telescope from a passing midshipman and raised it to his eye after balancing himself against his obliging father. A thick crowd was already lining the pier to greet them. A sudden, cold chill gripped him as his eyes scanned the faces: foreboding flared to rage. "They never give up," he spat acidly, handing the glass over to his father. "It's been twelve years, you think they'd take the hint!"
Andrie rebalanced himself as Pavel replaced his weight on the cane. He surveyed the crowd until he found the group of Starfleet Officers. "Two Command, one Doctor," he observed grimly in agreement with his son's assumption as he lowered the glass. "You realize," he continued gingerly in his soothing tenor voice, "that they've changed the medical rules for Command Officers, don't you?"
"A bit late," Pavel snorted. He narrowed his eyes and adjusted the box at his waist up a notch. The coolness increased, dousing the heat of the rage. "I'm 28 years old. The prospects are no better now than they were then. If you don't mind, I'll take a ship's boat to the Admiralty now and avoid that scene."
Andrie nodded, his eyes calculating. "It's your battle, Malyenki."
"I know," he agreed grimly. "And I don't expect more, just not now, Papa: not now."
"Not quite what you expected, hmm?"
Kirk glanced up briefly at McCoy's careworn, familiar face. Not quite? What had he expected? It was the twenty-third century and all the cities on this planet had taken on a generic, eerily familiar quality. The people had long been united into one mass: their souls, their dreams of one mind that bespoke of a world whose mature civilization was ready to project itself into outer space. The cities reflected that unity and efficiency, each a testament of well-oiled machinery, each with its own spice of culture thrown in.
Except St. Petersburg.
"Yes," he intoned thoughtfully, turning back to stare at the city through the ornate window. "It's different..." His voice trailed off, unable to catch the image in the immediacy of words. Even in the twilight, the canals glistened with reflected moonlight, the shimmering effervescence lighting up the marble that made up the entire city. The terraces and fountains sparkled in the reflected light, somehow appearing to be captive stars throughout the brilliant, architectural splendor that was St. Petersburg. The city had survived the streamlining and modernization that had swept over Earth because it had the rare privilege of having been built as a showplace: it was all monuments and historically significant architecture.
"It's as though history passed it by without touching," he observed quietly. The casual remark sent a sudden slice of steel piercing through him and he turned to see both McCoy and Sulu's faces turn grey.
"History," McCoy observed dryly. He didn't continue immediately, but let his steel blue eyes rest on Kirk with such an intensity it was as though he could see his soul. At times, Kirk suspected he could. "It wasn't the city I implied was not what you expected, Jim. It was Pavel Chekov."
Chekov: God, yes. Pavel Chekov was alive. Kirk turned quickly back to the window and folded his arms against the chill that swept over his body. Why wouldn't Kirk have thought Chekov would be dead? So many others were: Uhura, Riley, Spock...a portion of his crew so large he hadn't even begun to compute it.
"Jim," McCoy said, a challenge in the voice, "you were wrong."
The Captain spun quickly to the challenge. The sight of his friend's eyes, however, froze his instinctive retort. He stared at the Doctor, trying to rub warmth back into his arms. "No," he said, "Pavel Chekov may be alive, but he is still the fulcrum we are looking for."
History had been changed: altered dramatically, horridly. It had been a simple mission through the Guardian of Forever to retrieve medical information lost in a Space Station fire. When they had returned, however, it was not to a world they recognized. Through painstaking research they had traced it back to Pavel Chekov.
"Academy records show he received an appointment from the President of the Russian Federation himself, but he declined it," Kirk mused out loud. "All we have to do is find out what made him change his mind."
"And go back through the Guardian and change his mind again," McCoy added.
Kirk nodded. It no longer sounded as easy as preventing a death.
"I always told him I would have failed the Academy if it wasn't for him," Sulu voiced miserably from a velvet settee against the wall. Kirk watched his former Helmsman tear his fingers over his face and through his hair. He was looking increasingly more wretched and the Captain reasoned that he, by far, had fared the worse. Uhura, Riley and the others were mercifully dead. Sulu was supposedly running a flea-bitten freight line in a remote section of the galaxy after having been dismissed from the Academy his junior year.
Kirk avoided asking the explanation of what Chekov had done to prevent it. He dwelt, instead, on the memory of the Russian's calm, steady form as he navigated them through the violent magnetic storm in the Solaris Asteroid Field. It was only afterward that the Captain had discovered that the explosion that had killed the Chief Navigator had destroyed the navigation system as well: and Chekov had accomplished the feat with a completely dead system.
Only Chekov had not entered the Academy, and Sulu had not graduated to be there to act almost instinctively on his best friend's instructions. Kirk's crew had fallen and died... A commendation and a fight with Starfleet to formalize the field promotion of the Russian as the youngest Section Chief seemed paltry little recognition now. They had to find out why Chekov had chosen not to go to the Academy.
"Gentlemen, thank-you for your patience." The smooth tenor voice filled the room with its fluidness, a wisp of an accent touching the word's edges.
Kirk turned quickly, his eyes meeting the hardened, dark gaze of the Commander-In-Chief of the New Imperial Russian Navy. His lean, powerful figure stood immobile in the doorway: a blaze of brilliant white in the unblemished, starched cloth of an Imperial Russian military uniform. Braids and garlands of gold dripped off his chest and snaked around his sleeves. So striking were the bronze face and thick shock of black hair against the white uniform that it was startling. This man, whose coal-black hair and mustache had not even begun to grey, was not only the Commander-In-Chief, but the founder of the New Imperial Russian Navy. From nothing he had built the most glorious fleet of tall ships and well-trained seamen in the galaxy. The mirror of an ancient fleet, it was responsible for saving Earth's once dying maritime and folk heritages.
The Admiral carried about him an air of invincibility that stunned one into the impossible conclusion that before you stood a Romanov Tzar reincarnate.
Kirk moved forward and extended his hand in an age-old gesture. "Admiral, we appreciate your time. I was just admiring your ship: this room has an extraordinary view of the harbor."
The piercing, dark eyes bore into Kirk from beneath an antique military hat. Unblinking, unwavering, they seemed to strip Kirk's humanity away. "It's a frigate," he replied tersely, "Not a ship, and this is the Admiralty, Captain: it was built specifically to have a view of the harbor."
"Of course," Kirk replied diplomatically, dropping the hand the man had never taken.
"I assume you are still intent on speaking to my son," the Admiral continued.
Kirk stilled, the warmth dropping out of his insides. Yes, he had known that Chekov served in the Navy as a youth. He had even known that he a particular fondness for the Admiral: it was for those reasons they had sought him on the Admiral's flagship that morning. Kirk had never any idea that the man was actually Chekov's father, however.
"Yes," he replied to the Admiral's question finally. "Quite frankly, our sole purpose here is to speak with Pavel." That, too, had been unexpected. The possibility that Chekov would refuse to see them and actually take lengths to avoid them had not even remotely occurred to Kirk.
The man moved with easy grace past the Captain and across the mosaic floor, his gaze shifting to McCoy and Sulu standing tersely by the window. Dark eyes froze then on Sulu's face and Kirk sensed, rather than saw, the man's concentration deepen. The relentless stare and silence became painful.
"My crew has finished securing The Nelzya," he finally said, turning back to eye Kirk as he bent to sit in one of the antique chairs. Pulling off his hat, he dropped it in his lap and freed the first few buttons of his uniform coat.
"We will be leaving shortly for our home in the Historic District, Captain. You and your officers are welcome to join us."
"We prefer to wait for Pavel to finish work, Sir," Kirk responded, surprised by the man's further invitation more so than he had been by the original one to wait at the Admiralty.
The man nodded soberly, eyes leveled at Kirk in a way which read through him. He slowly brushed a finger along the bottom of his mustache. "Of course, the choice is yours, Captain." Eyes brightening, he continued, "Pavel Andrievich does have a tendency to come home after work, however."
Startled, Kirk shifted uncomfortably. The humor betrayed by the shine in his eyes was an unexpected facet of this man he'd heard so much about. A rude obnoxious bastard was the kindest description Kirk had ever heard and the Captain had judged from news reports that, at the very least, the Admiral was a brutally honest, self-driven, single-minded dynamo. His way of avoiding bureaucratic games was an irritating habit of believing every word said to him was meant literally.
Sulu's words of warning came back to him now: "He remembers every word you say to him and every minute inflection you connect to it. He can mirror back complete conversations with every nuance of body language as if he were a recorder."
It was a sobering thought that Kirk took into account as he phrased his answer. "I'm not sure it would be wise for us to stay in your home," the Captain responded carefully. "I wouldn't want to put you in a difficult position, considering your son's feelings toward us."
A flash of light swept suddenly over the man's face, the brilliance of the smile lighting up his features. Deep, resounding laughter filled the room as he stood. "Captain, your business with him is between the two of you. We understand that." Eyes sparkling with deep humor, he shook his head. "I've made it a point not to try to live his life: I've barely got control of my own." Somehow, the depth of the humor in the man's eyes made the statement more serious than flippant.
"I'm not sure why you would make the offer," Kirk ventured.
Lines feathered their way out from the man's eyes and a sadness laced the edges of his amusement. "No, you probably don't."
"Captain," Sulu interjected quietly, moving up and refastening the Admiral's coat for him. "The Chekov's are Traditional Russians. Community and hospitality are the basis of their culture and refusing the offer would be considered an unforgivable insult. Besides," he added, straightening the man's coat, sleeves and belt as he eyed him critically, "there are no lodgings in the Historic Districts: the concept is foreign to them."
Visitors are made immediate members of the family. Chekov had quipped it, but Kirk had somehow not understood. "We wouldn't want to offend," he finally concluded as Sulu reseated the Admiral's hat on his head. "We'd be honored."
"Good," the man said with a finality, his gaze remaining on Sulu as the helmsman moved back to McCoy's side. Dark eyes filled the silence as he slowly drew a finger along the thin gold loop threaded through his left ear. "I'll send a seaman to retrieve you shortly, Captain," he said suddenly and then spun neatly in one step and was gone, leaving the room vibrating with the aftereffects of his presence. The Admiral was an enigma to be sure, thought Kirk.
"He doesn't know me." The vibration of pain echoing in Sulu's words made Kirk turn. The realities of being on this mission etched a haunting portrait on the young man's face: no one he cared about would even vaguely remember him, including his best friend. Hikaru Sulu was the only man currently alive that would see any discrepancy in Pavel Chekov's life history, however, and that pain was necessary if any of them were going to get their reality back.
"He will." McCoy's voice echoed a surety Kirk no longer felt. None of this was turning out as expected.
Most deeply unexpected was the Admiral's crew that surrounded them on the long steam train ride to their quarters. The Admiral, whose very name struck fear into the hearts of experienced government leaders, did not ward over this group of mismatched men as a Commander. Rather, he sat among them like a tolerant father orchestrating the activities of an energetic group of boys. They pounced on him in wrestling matches, threw things at him for horridly bad puns and he egged them on in practical jokes with a merry wit which his wife rewarded with a sound slap across his head.
When the very order of the universe seemed on the verge of collapse, he ended the chaos with a story woven by the deep melody of his voice. Sudden silence dropped upon them under the hypnotic effect of his voice, eyes and subtle hand movements with which he lured the listeners away from reality. Kirk found himself entranced by his vivid word portraits and appreciated this as a reward of the man's memory skills.
This was not a crew as Kirk had every known--it was a family. The celebration of their freedom from the sea's captivity continued on at the palace they called their home far into the night. Kirk and his men escaped the crew's clutches finally long past midnight, fleeing from the golden ballroom into the relative sanctuary of their room where they could bemoan their gorging on foods they could not pronounce.
"I can't believe Pavel lives like this." The drawl present indicated McCoy had not entirely avoided the alcohol with which they had tried to inebriate them. "He's so damn modest."
"Yes," Kirk mused, his gaze taking in the elaborate room. The white marble palace had been built by some petty noble to replace the original village manor house. The elaborate gaudiness of Russian beauty filled the Naval Palace but did nothing to distract Kirk from the thought they had yet to see Pavel Chekov.
"You should close the door if you don't wish to be dragged back."
Startled, Kirk turned to the soft, warm glow of femininity in the open doorway. Her fair skin, fawn colored hair and brilliant green eyes were as much a contrast to her husband's features as her effervescent warmth and charm were to his ususal cold arrogance. "Thank-you, Mrs. Chekov..."
"Maria," she interrupted, merry amusement bubbling into her eyes.
"Maria," he acknowledged and continued on. "We were still hoping to speak to Pavel this evening. Is he usually this late?"
Kirk saw grey apprehension flash through her eyes and knew the truth despite her charming, amused answer. "He's well past the age when he needs to be accountable to his mother, James. He's a young man: who knows..." She hesitated then, glancing over her shoulder and turned back toward them with a swift smile. "There he is now," she said soothingly. "I'll send him right up."
Disappearing with a graceful spin into the hallway, Kirk was driven to replace her at the doorway. The tall, stocky man that pulled himself over the threshold of the marble stairs was not who he had hoped for, however.
"Vladimir, it's so late!"
"He wanted to walk the canals, Mama."
"Starfleet's here," she sighed by way of explanation and brushed the auburn hair out of his eyes. "You look exhausted: go get something to eat."
"Yes, Mama," the sailor nodded, kissing her briefly as he moved past.
"Malyenki," she sighed again with mild exasperation before darting down the ornate staircase. Kirk, framed in the doorway, remained frozen there by some morbid curiosity.
"Mama, five ovations tonight. You would have been proud."
Startled, the Captain stepped back into the room reflexively. The voice was familiar, yet eerily different.
"His accent," Sulu said knowingly when he saw Kirk's face. "I forgot to tell you. In the Academy, he learned if he exaggerated it people automatically took him with some levity."
And forgave any blunders caused by his being risen in a culture so vastly different from theirs, Kirk understood without having to hear it. Terrans were expected to act as though they were from the Earth they all knew. How ethnocentric we still are about our own planet.
"I've told you people before, I'm not going to change my mind."
The voice still sliced Kirk's insides, but, turning, the warmth of reassurance surged through him deceptively. Leaning against the doorway was the young Russian Security Chief he'd seen not more than a week ago. True, subtle changes were evident. A small gold hoop was threaded through his left earlobe and, although his hair was no different in the front, Kirk could detect the same short braid his father wore in the back. He appeared more suave and debonair than Kirk had ever seen him. Then again, the Captain reasoned, the black tuxedo tails and white tie would probably have the same effect on the man he knew.
"Actually, we are trying to investigate ways of making Starfleet more appealing. We felt you were a perfect opportunity to discuss the reasoning behind your decision to withdraw your application twelve years ago."
Silent, dark eyes met his unflinchingly. The lie he had practiced so long was not in the least believable to this man. "Really?" Pavel Chekov finally drawled, raising an ebony cane to twirl it in his fingers and eye its ivory top. A sudden, familiar smile swept easily over his features and he began to laugh. "I'm sure you did: we'll talk tomorrow." He disappeared into the hallway, the smile never having reached his eyes.
Kirk moved swiftly to close the heavy wooden door and he lingered there to watch the young Russian proceed down the hall with his father, who had apparently been perched in the hallway. The young man limped heavily: using the cane with a grace that spoke of years of practice. Kirk closed the door and leaned against it, triumphant.
"He's limping badly, Bones. He must have been injured." The Captain paced back toward the thick feather beds. It would not have eliminated his ability to be in Starfleet totally, just in the Command School. If they were smart enough to know his potential, they would have kept pursing him. "I've told you people..." No wonder he didn't believe Kirk. "We just have to trace the accident," he said aloud, turning to his companions. His triumph waned as Sulu and McCoy exchanged glances.
"It was a swimming accident when he was fifteen," Sulu said, his voice and eyes distant. "I don't know why he wouldn't have recovered fully," he added.
"We can prevent the accident."
"No," Sulu said adamantly, shaking his head. "You can't go against the nature of the universe. Besides," he pondered aloud, "how do we know how much of our Pavel's soul was created by that accident? You may still lose one of your best officers."
"Bones?"
The Doctor shook his head solemnly. "I only have the vaguest records: he was injured, he was treated, he recovered. I requested complete records, but they're confidential, Jim." He hesitated a moment before continuing. "Pavel refused to allow their release to me."
Kirk watched as Sulu's face greyed. He moved away, clutching his arms about his chest. "We know where to begin, at least," the Captain concluded after a moment.
"There's something else wrong with him," Sulu murmured, staring aimlessly out the dark window. "His eyes...so different..."
Of course they were, Kirk thought. There was no recognition of friendship in them.
Pavel leaned on the marble balcony rail, watching the stars shimmer above the forest beyond the palace grounds. The performance was over, but the irritation continued on: invading his form with an unshakable chill. Starfleet Officers had come gone through his life like a revolving door. These men were different, however: a difference intensified by his father's most recent revelation.
"It's not possible," he finally concluded aloud, readjusting the box at his waist.
"No," his father agreed evenly. In the silence, however, they both understood that somehow it was true anyway.
"Not possible, Papa," he repeated, and drew his eyes to his father's face. He read there a surety that his father had met this man and yet did not remember him. It's an impossibility. He drew in a deep breath, turning the man's face and name over in his mind. Hikaru Sulu. There seemed something eerily familiar about the Starfleet Officer to him, too, but it would not have been unusual for him to forget a passing face. Men with photographic memories did not forget, however.
"Are you sure he knew you as well?"
"Either that or he makes a habit out of dressing visiting Officers."
A smile swept over Pavel's features. "You actually undressed in front of them?" He laughed merrily, enchanted with the vision presented him.
"Well, not entirely!" his father retorted, scowling comically. "I took off my hat and unbuttoned my coat. I didn't know what else to do other than come out and ask him!"
It was true. The man had defiantly not mastered the art of being subtle. His eyes were merry as well as indignant and Pavel's grin grew wicked. "And what would you have done if you had been wrong?"
"Walked around half dressed," Andrei bellowed indignantly. "Mama would have been mortified and beaten me senseless."
Pavel laughed at the man's exaggerated self righteousness. He turned to lean his back against the rail as his father's ruse at hardened resolve dissolved into giggles as well. His mother would have been horrified by Andrie's actions after she had worked so diligently to instill in him even the most basic understanding of social decorum. She had succeeded so well that the fact Sulu would know to assist in such rudimentary skills was fundamentally disturbing. It illustrated an intimate knowledge of Andrie that only a family member would have. His father saw the changed tone in his deep brown eyes.
"I thought you should know."
Pavel nodded, picking up his cane to twirl it in his fingers. "These men are not what they appear," he observed, then shifted his gaze to meet his father's eyes. "I'll stop and make some inquires with my Starfleet friends when I go into the city tomorrow. I made a Doctor's appointment for the morning."
His last words lingered in the tension of midair and drew all emotion out of his father's eyes. He felt him still. "Have you?" he asked softly.
Nodding again, Pavel's gaze remained on his father's. "I don't know that I have it in me to give up after so long, Papa, but I have to try." His voice wavered as he leaned into the elder man's chest. "I will be too old soon." He fingered the box at his waist yet again.
His father's arms wrapped around him, gripping him in silence a long moment. "Strange that these men should come now."
"I won't change my mind, Papa," Pavel said with finality, pulling back, but leaving his arm draped around the man's waist. "It's far too late and the options are still too few."
His father was silent longer than was characteristic. "You could teach."
Teach... Pavel thought, in that environment, among them, surrounded by their lives and dreams... A surge of old energy swept through him like fire and he knew that his father saw it. "No," he said without hesitation. "You know me too well to believe I could ever do anything part way."
His father nodded, brushing a calloused hand over his son's smooth hair. "It's your life, Malyenki. Try to get at least some sleep," he added as he left the balcony.
Sleep was not something Pavel pursued often and, in fact, he spent a leisurely amount of time in the easy company of his piano before attempting to honor his father's request. When sleep came, it was haunted by nightmares that never formed and memories of faces he couldn't see and didn't know. He left the palace long before anyone else arose and fled to the cold impersonalization of the city.
The sharp contrast of the city's stark people and buildings always served as a catharsis for him, but this time it was an unwelcome one. The reality of his own people and world seemed to slip from his grasp as though their imbedded place in his life were a vague illusion he'd never possessed. He floundered about the surrealistic world of technology and fled blindly from his unreal agreement to allow the Doctor to make it a permanent part of his life.
Starfleet friends seemed disconnected here suddenly, and memories of times they'd shared vague and unimportant. Their world and technology brought a roaring, blinding rush of suffocating nothingness. The void grew and overwhelmed him as his inquiries into their records made the nightmare oppressively, unrelentingly real. He ordered his driver to race him away from the city and its vegetative existence.
Unfiltered air seeped its way through his being, slowly bringing his soul back to life. The cherry trees and long sweep of forest brought everything into the sharp realism that came after rainstorms. Desperation made him even more fiercely determined to rid himself of the chilled core that should have been deep peace.
"Bring Sulu to me on the terrace in thirty minutes," he instructed, the door swinging open before the automobile was even halted. "I need to talk to Papa."
"Good Lord."
A chill seeped through Kirk as his eyes were drawn over the walls of posters, plaques, ribbons, trophies and medals. Pavel Chekov was not only alive, he thought, his life has thrived without Starfleet's presence in it. "He's a concert pianist," he said aloud.
Sulu nodded silently, drawing his fingers over the polished ebony surface of the concert grand piano that dominated the huge, airy room. "Starfleet was not an easy choice for him."
"He must be good," McCoy observed. "Even I recognize some of these awards."
Kirk moved silently around the room, feeling an odd sense of loss. "I never even knew," he murmured. "He claimed he couldn't play when they asked him in the rec rooms."
"His music is not quite rec room material, Sir."
The Captain's hazel eyes dimmed in acknowledgment and he moved closer to the Helmsman. "We need to know what happened with this injury and recovery, Hikaru, if we are ever going to restore our lives."
Sulu wrapped his arms around his chest, his body tightening as he stared out the window in the distance. "Captain," he said after a moment, "There is no word in Russian for privacy, but the way they live their lives..." he hesitated, shaking his head. "Either you know essentially nothing about them, or you're a friend and you know everything. You never crossed that line with Pavel." His eyes met Kirk's only briefly before glancing away.
We were friends...the Captain began to protest, but it went unvoiced. The friendship he thought he had with his Security Chief was obviously a tenuous connection at best. I know nothing about this man.
"We have to find out what changed his mind, Hikaru," he said quietly. "If we're going to repair the damage we've done to his life."
"Pavel will have to tell you," Sulu voiced mechanically with determination.
McCoy's face went grey as well, his gaze avoiding Kirk's. This was more than a near drowning, and Sulu won't trust me with the information if Pavel hasn't.
"Lt. Sulu, Pavel Andrievich's compliments. He'd like to see you on the terrace."
Kirk glanced sharply at the dark-haired seaman in the doorway who had been missing from the banquet that passed for breakfast. "We've been waiting to speak to him."
Unwavering, the man made no motion and repeated the archaic form of summons. "Pavel Andrievich sent his compliments only to Lt. Sulu.
"I understand," he continued, "the Admiral will be bringing you to speak to him soon."
Kirk nodded after a moment's consideration and dismissed Sulu.
Pavel stared out across the field of wildflower gardens, over the rows of cherry trees and into the world in which his life was so imbedded. He knew now why something so inherent to him felt so out of place. He knew, as well, that the preservation of far more was as stake.
He felt the man's presence before he heard his footsteps and it unnerved him. It unnerved him as much as the way the man's gaze automatically met his when he turned. There was an ingrained inner connection between them he had not allowed himself to acknowledge before.
"Have you eaten?" he asked, motioning the man to sit on his right at the small table. Sulu did so, and Pavel watched his eyes linger overlong on the cane and his propped left leg. So his leg was not injured. The feelings that flooded him were a torrent of confusion.
"Yes, I ate," the officer responded, "But I'll take some coffee: Turkish, please," he said louder to a seaman who appeared. "Russian coffee is a contradiction in terms," he joked effortlessly after the seaman left.
Chekov smiled, but the words were hauntingly familiar. They were his own, and the silent acknowledg-ment of that flashed across the Asian's dark eyes.
"Are you sure you won't have any blini, at least? I have plenty here."
Sulu's face jerked into a convulsive wince of revulsion. "For breakfast? No, thank-you."
"I'd eat them all day if it were my choice," Pavel commented, biting into one with a particularly sweet and gooey filling. But he knows that already, he thought as he read the knowledge in the man's face as clearly as if he were a fellow Russian. He followed the bite with some strong black tea as they delivered his companion's coffee, then disappeared again.
"So how long have you been in Starfleet?"
"Thirteen years, since I was seventeen," Sulu replied, his voice guarded. "I've been lucky: the last eight were on The Enterprise. She's the finest ship in the Fleet."
Chekov nodded. "I've heard of Kirk. I suppose you joined seeking adventures in exotic places." He has no idea why he's here.
"No," Sulu drew out, pausing to draw a finger around the rim of his cup. "I joined to prove I could."
Pavel watched the shadow of pain trace over the man's features as he spoke. "I suppose you'd like to get aboard the new Dreadnaught class ships when they're available."
Sulu shook his head. "No, I've seen the specs. They're packing the ships too full, like cramming a traditional sailing ship full of phasers and photons. A committee must have designed it."
Chekov nodded, but lapsed into silence as he stared into his tea. I don't need to do this, he thought as the silence between them became a warm, tangible presence. Even without knowing, he knew: and he felt guilty about betraying an indelible bond he could not
remember having. "You're my friend," he finally intoned subtly. Friend--only he said it in Russian and he used the diminutive. To a Russian it would have meant brother, soulmate.
Sulu's face went suddenly white, the crystal glass and its metal holder clattering to the table between them.
He raised his eyes to the man in the Starfleet uniform, who had obviously understood. "I don't know it, I can't remember it: but I can feel it between us. I can read it in your face," Pavel said quietly as the man mopped up the coffee he had spilled.
"Damn you, Pavel Andrievich," Sulu growled beneath his breath, his face betraying gratitude for the end of the pretense. He could not deny it because of the bond between them. Twinsense, he had always called it and Chekov had mocked him gleefully for the modern word. "Sometimes you're as bad as your father," he concluded.
A crooked grin split the Russian's face. "Worse, I think. Hikaru, I trusted you somewhen," he continued levelly. "Now why don't you explain how two men who have never met can be friends, why Captain Kirk is traveling with a Starfleet Academy dropout impersonating an Officer and why a man who runs a freighter knows about the top-secret dreadnaught class ships?
"What happened," he asked, dark eyes solidly on the man's face, "and why are you here?"
Being here: in this house, among these people--was a surrealistic existence from some old classic movie. No, an old Gogol novel, Kirk reasoned as he stepped out onto the terrace. The whole expanse of the palace spewed out onto this patio in the back, it's polished white marble surface surrounded by ornate carved railings which held back the encroaching gardens.
Chekov was clothed in a seaman's uniform this morning: the kind it had once been obligatory for every child's picture to be taken in. His form at one of the small gilt tables at the railing made the effect of this being some historical drama all the more real.
The Admiral prompted them to move on and they did. The Captain's gaze was riveted on Sulu and Chekov at the table as they approached it. There was an ease between them that came only from time's passing.
"Have a seat, Captain," Chekov said, and he moved his propped leg to relinquish the chair to him. McCoy took the other seat as Kirk watched a shadow trace over Chekov's face. He's not only injured: he's in pain.
"Thank-you for taking the time to see us, Pavel," he said easily as Chekov drank his tea. "We're interested in discussing what prompted you to reverse your decision to enter Starfleet Academy."
Chekov lowered his cup, shaking his head as he swallowed. His gaze hesitated on the cup a moment before he raised dark, depthless eyes to the man who should have been his Captain. "No, you're not," he said levelly. "What you want to know is that Dr. Robert Chapman was killed in a starliner crash two months before I entered his clinic. You were kind enough to hold that ship for him: the ship he should have missed."
Kirk stilled as the burly man's running image drifted across his mind. Chekov had known why they were there, had known to ask Sulu what it was they sought. Of course, the Captain realized: he would have verified their credentials. Only Sulu was not in Starfleet.
"I'm sorry," he finally spoke aloud. The weight of their mistake became all the heavier with the young man's knowledge. "Our mission was a humanitarian one and we were careful to have no impact on the events around us."
"Not careful enough."
The words fell into the silence and hung there as Chekov lowered his eyes to his plate and purposefully rearranged the thin, rolled pancakes on it.
"We will go back now to repair the damage we've done."
The younger man began chuckling and he grimaced at Kirk out of the tops of his eyes. "Tell me, Captain, how would you feel if someone came and told you that the last twelve years of your life had been a mistake and, thank-you very much, but they're going to erase it?"
Good Lord, Kirk thought in cold horror. He doesn't want us to fix this. His words confirmed it.
"Captain," he drawled, dark eyes bright. "I am a world-class pianist and am living happily among my family and my people. Perhaps this life is different from other possibilities that you may have seen, but it makes this choice no less valuable." The voice turned dark, menacing. "What gives you the right to decide how my life will have been lived? This is my life, my choice."
"We're not just talking about your life," McCoy spat back acidly. "Because you are not in Starfleet history has been changed: people have died."
Chekov spun his cup on the table with his fingertips. "History is changed each moment every person is alive. I don't know these people who died. Maybe others have lived," he shrugged. Dark eyes raised themselves to Kirk and bored through him without any hint of emotion. The Captain did not know this person and he was unnerved by it.
"What difference does it make anyway? The Guardian of Forever will always be there. Anyone can change history willy-nilly anytime they choose. The morality of our actions doesn't really matter, does it? What we do can just be erased over and over again, and without our slightest knowledge."
"A rather futile view of life," McCoy rasped.
Chekov shrugged again and eyed the Doctor. "If I choose to agree and let you rip away everything that is so vital to me," he asked quietly, "How should I live the next two weeks of my life while you travel back to 'fix' this? How should I live, knowing everything I do will be erased? It's quite powerful information to know you're not responsible for what you do." He fixed terse, haunted eyes on the man. "What happens to a man's mind and soul, Doctor, when you rip his life away again and again?"
The lines in McCoy's face deepened, a reflection of the contortions occurring within. There were no answers to such questions: there could be no answers.
Kirk watched the exchange silently. He watched, as well, when the young man' s eyes shifted briefly to touch his father's and it was the first time Kirk's attention was drawn to the man standing behind McCoy. The Admiral stood studying his son in the way a student studies a fencing master: watch, analyze, memorize for future use.
The Captain's insides went cold. This was not about whether Pavel wanted his life restored. It was, instead, a slow methodical lead through a mine field and into an open trap. Pavel's skills were the ones the two had elected to get them to this point and it had worked effortlessly. Kirk had an instant respect for a talent he never knew Chekov had.
The Captain raised himself out of the seat slowly, his eyes meeting the Admiral's. "What do you want?"
"You can have him," the man stated with maddening ease, "But in return you must destroy the Guardian."
There was a calm arrogance in the man's statement, and an omnipotent triumph that was obvious in his eyes despite his casual stance.
This was the man government leaders feared.
"What gives you the right to make that choice for the galaxy?" the Captain demanded, hazel eyes cold. He was not entirely able to keep the outrage out of his voice as his fingertips drummed on the table beneath him.
"What gives you the right to preserve the power of unknown individuals to rewrite history and the present? If our lives may be altered randomly by anyone at any time, then there is no point in living. Humans are not ready for this kind of responsibility, Captain."
The absolute certainty this man had in his opinions was enough to make a reasonable man biased, Kirk decided. As a reasonable man he felt backed into defending anything rather than conform when demanded to. He was uncomfortably reminded of an argument he'd had with the Organians on his right to wage war....
"If I don't agree?"
"Then Pavel will remain here in this reality and I will see to it that every person in the Federation is made aware of the atrocities you have caused. The Guardian will be closed either way."
The man was maddeningly right. Mass hysteria and outrage would be the result of his event being revealed. Kirk was beginning to understand how the Admiral always seemed to get his way.
"Captain," the Navy officer drawled, his dark eyes intent. "Is restoring what was lost worth taking responsibility for this?"
Kirk shifted and his eyes hesitated briefly on the sight of Pavel's hand gripping his cane: the knuckles were white. Even now, Pavel does care about the Fleet. There was an amount of self-satisfaction in that knowledge, Kirk found. He cared about preventing a repetition of this event more, however, cared enough to risk his Starfleet career all over again. The Captain's hazel eyes lifted immutably to the Admiral. "The Guardian of Forever will be isolated from use."
The Admiral's frozen facade dissolved instantly, the chill melting before them with a casual, brilliant smile. "Well enough, Captain. I look forward to meeting you." He departed instantly: an easy, unfettered grace in his steps as he moved out of sight.
Kirk's eyes rested briefly on his Security Chief's pallor and he wondered what hidden fear those soulful eyes held. Surely Sulu knew. "We do care," he said after a moment. "I am sorry for what this has done."
A lame smile traced over the man's face and he shook his head, motioning the futility with a hand. "Just Summer Snow, Captain."
Kirk hesitated obviously, the notion of snow in the summertime, even in Russia, outlandish to him.
Chekov laughed aloud. "In Russia, the seasons do not blossom: they rush in and out like the tides. There are many cherry trees and when summer comes, the blossoms shed become a virtual blizzard. We call it Summer Snow.
"The trees are beautiful with the blossoms on them. They are beautiful without the blossoms in other ways. History affects our lives the way Summer Snow affects the cherry trees. True, it changes them: but, now, we wouldn't have fruit without it, would we?"
The Captain stared at him in silence a long moment, then the young man smiled brilliantly: cryptically.
"I like cherries."
"You could come with us now, if you like."
The smile became outlandish and Pavel Chekov nearly giggled. "No, Sir, I couldn't. Thank-you anyway." There was a finality in the words and Kirk acknowledged them by moving to leave. McCoy's tug on his arm caused him to hesitate at the doors to the house, however. Sulu had lingered at the table.
Pavel's dark eyes watched them pause. "Don't tell them," he said distantly as he fingered the box at his waist. "I don't want them to know it wasn't the pain that made my decision obvious." He shifted his gaze to watch Sulu's slow nod.
He studied the distant cloud in Chekov's eyes that he alone had noticed. "They help the pain, at least?"
There was a pause in Pavel's response as the man's eyes showed he was searching for one particular answer, and he gave it to him. "Yes, of course," but even as he said it, Sulu knew it was a lie. Pavel smiled slowly. "There are no drugs that can reduce the type of pain that comes from severed nerves: but they make it so you don't care if you're in pain." Make it so you just don't care... "Remind me," he said after a moment, "That unused anger too easily becomes cruelty."
Eyebrows knitting, Sulu raised his nearly black eyes to his friend. There was no explanation in the man's brilliant, dark eyes. He did not ask: like McCoy's knowledge of the accident, there were things which were never meant to be known. He merely nodded as he stood. "I'll be glad to have you back, Little One," he said as he touched his friend's shoulder. "And I probably won't even mind you hugging me anymore."
Chekov laughed at the gleam in Sulu's eyes as he left. Pavel was left alone with only a lingering presence at the edge of his subconscious. It occurred to him that soon he would be able to be alone--truly alone--for the first time in his life. The exhilaration he felt at the concept was very un-Russian. This version of privacy seemed strangely unnecessary now.
"Dimitri?" he inquired, somehow already knowing. The sailor appeared from nowhere, his eyes tentative. There was always one of them lingering just beyond reach. Slightly younger than himself, Pavel enjoyed Dimitri's easy-going nature but they were hardly friends. "Let's walk up to the lake together."
The oddity of the request was lost as consternation flashed suddenly through the man's grey eyes and irritation flashed through Chekov in response. He let go of it with effort: the boy was right. Pain would be necessarily involved in such a walk and the drug unit at his side would surely respond with enough drugs to render him unconscious. Dimitri was far too small to cope with his deadweight.
"I will go get Viktor..."
Chekov shook his head, standing up. The heady scent on the air spoke of Summer Snow and it no longer seemed necessary to pursue emotions the box at his side never allowed. "We can go get a lunch and you can drive us up in one of the cars. Dimitri...."
The sailor paused in his tracks and turned. Silence hung there for a moment as Pavel considered that there were some truths no longer spoken in this family.
"Dimitri, you would have liked me before."
As the young man turned, Chekov saw that there was doubt in the grey eyes.