Matthew

by Andriech

With their landing party stranded on a hostile planet, Kirk places his faith in his Chief Navigator to keep them alive until the ship returns. He has no idea that Chekov is getting help from an unexpected source. Award winning story. Please R&R!

Matthew

He could feel the goose bumps on his arms and legs caused by the unusual warm draft that swept by him. He thought nothing of it until he remembered he was standing in his cabin on a starship in the depths of space.

The unconventional Environmental Chief on the Enterprise may have been prone to creating sudden effects to starve off the boredom of the starship's inmates, but warm breezes were not one of them. Nor could they have been, he realized, a frown creasing his brow.

 Chekov froze, comb in mid-air as he saw the image of the man behind him in the mirror. Staring at the familiar features made his heart stop and he slowly turned, only to find no one there.

"Hey, you ready? We're going to be LATE." Sulu emphasized the last word as he strode into the Navigator's cabin through the bathroom that adjoined his own.

The younger man stared at him, dumbfounded, a long moment. He blinked suddenly as he realized what his friend was talking about. "Da, da: I'm ready." He tossed his comb unceremoniously on the dresser top and moved over to pick up the large pack on his bed. "Let's go, we don't want the Captain waiting at the transporter."

The Helmsman didn't move, his dark eyes on the comb Chekov had just discarded. They moved slowly over to eye his friend. "Are you alright?" he asked with concern.

He snorted. "Of course I'm alright, c'mon."

But Sulu still didn't move and Chekov followed his eyes back to the comb. When it had landed it had strewn the various items there in disarray. The Navigator was fastidious about his belongings and everything was always in its place. His helm partner knew him too well, he thought dismally as he felt the man's continued gaze.

Chekov smiled thinly, the gesture not reaching his eyes. "I'll be fine, really."

Reseating his own pack on his shoulders, Sulu made the annoying gesture of tousling his friend's just-combed hair as he walked by him toward the corridor. "Nothing a good romp on an unexplored planet can't cure, hmm?

Chekov's boots pounded the packed dirt, his tightly muscled legs driving him past the dense forest on either side. A fog of kicked-up dirt rose nearly up to his waist from the boots of the men ahead of him on the road. He chanced a glance backward. The narrow road wound off into the towering vegetation, the explosion of green threatening the very existence of the route they followed. There were no signs of their pursuers. No distant sounds even reached him: but the overpowering sense of doom that seized him was unshakable.

He tried to grip the free-flowing panic as he turned back and moved to close the distance between him and the rest of the landing party. The forest suddenly evaporated on the left: absolute, unbroken sky startling Chekov with it's sheer intense light. He scrambled to a halt and stared at the white, tumbling fog churning above the ground he stood on. He could not only feel the moisture, but he could hear the familiar, powerful roar of one of nature's most powerful elements.

Moving to the edge of the road, he saw that the ground vanished in a sheer drop here: plummeting without mercy several hundred feet. A massive river churned up the forest to his right, its nearest bank only several dozen feet from the road where Kirk and the rest were ahead of him. The river plunged here too: crashing to meet the base of the cliff he stood on. How far down, he could not tell, as the explosive, churning water thrown up by the impact obscured the view of the base.

What he could tell by the sound was that the river, which came to the cliff flowing south, abruptly turned west when it settled in its new basin. He raised his eyes from the curious geography and stared into the mist floating up from the waterfall.

This was an example of what one hoped not to encounter on a landing party. The computer's construction of native clothing was just different enough for them to be identified as strangers within a short period of time. Unfortunately, the native culture was…intolerant of strangers from even neighboring communities. They had definitive measures in place to discourage such intrusions.

"Chekov!!"

The Captain's demanding shout reached him, but he did not turn. His eyes were on that mist. The doom was gone, the panic meaningless.

"Chekov!" This time it was Sulu and he could tell they had stopped as they realized that he no longer followed. "Chekov!" The irritation of a friend: the exasperation at a younger errant brother.

The young Navigator breathed in the mist deeply, then finally turned his head toward the other men. His wide, dark eyes sought out his friend's and held his gaze firmly. Sulu was frozen by the depthless stare.

"Pavel!" he gasped in a horrid, knowing, whisper.

Chekov smiled slightly, then turned and gracefully jumped up and out into the abyss before him.

"Chekov!" Kirk screamed his name this time and was instantly tearing back toward the cliff. What was he thinking he could do, even he wondered. The ship's finest Navigator had just purposely plunged over a cliff to his death. Not like a downtrodden suicide, no, he had leapt with his legs bent and arms out like a child gleefully jumping into a waterhole.

Did he hope that a rocky outcropping or tree bough stopped Chekov's fall? No, the man had leapt away from the side and he didn't appear to want to be stopped. The Captain was seized by the knowledge that something was fundamentally wrong.

Kirk stopped at the cliff and edged carefully closer to peer over. He was not afraid of heights, but Chekov had always simply appeared to be unaware of them. Maybe the young man had some form of insanity they had just not noticed. There was nothing to see: just the roaring, crashing water and the mist it created. Only by sound did the Captain determine it was a good two hundred, two hundred fifty feet down.

He steeled himself against the wilting, the anger he felt lacing itself up his insides.

"Jim, we have to keep going! They're still coming!"

Kirk jerked his arm away from McCoy's tugs and shoved a balled fist at the waterfall. "Chekov," he growled.

"Jim," his friend said in measured tones. "It's my medical opinion that the boy is dead. There's no way a human survived that fall."

"And what if he did?!" the Captain demanded, hazel eyes hard as he swung on the Doctor. "What if he's laying down there broken and battered? Are you suggesting we leave him for them to find?"

The Chief Surgeon's mouth twitched and he grayed noticeably at Kirk's suggestion. Kirk reinforced it with a verbal reminder. "Bones, they're not just cannibals. They keep you alive so they can eat you slowly, piece by piece. And if Chekov's dead," the Captain added menacingly. "I'm still not leaving him to be 'enjoyed'."

Kirk turned his gaze back the way they had come. When he had swung on the Doctor he had thought he had saw an area where the vegetation was a lighter color green. Had he imagined it?

"Captain, the next time you have one of these landing parties where you need to send The Enterprise away, I just want you to know I'm sending another medical officer," McCoy growled under his breath.

"Duly noted," Kirk replied easily. No, there was no color variation, but as his eyes followed the line of vegetation along the roadside, he found a spot where it disappeared. He smiled. He shifted the pack on his back.

"This way, gentlemen."  Striding quickly to the spot, he pushed through the bushes and came out onto a clear forest foot trail on the other side. Just as he expected. He moved down it several strides so both Sulu and McCoy could join him under the cover of the dense forest before pausing to eye its path. It wound through the forest itself; not staying to what was by all means another cliff on the south shore of the now westward flowing river. The trail went down, though, definitely down to where he wanted to be.

"Jim, what about them?" McCoy asked, thrusting his thumb back toward the road. "They're still coming after us."

"They'll think we kept going," Sulu said brightly. "We had a good enough lead that it will be awhile before they even suspect we doubled back." He punched a bush nearby. "And this forest isn't going to make it easy for them to figure where we disappeared to."

Kirk watched the man as he spoke. Even now the good-natured optimism, even when his best friend probably lay in a bloody mass beneath them. His alpha helm team were alike in many ways: most notably in their passionate emotions, their boundless energy and unbounded zeal for life itself. The thought caught in his throat and he gestured to his Chief Helmsman.

"Sulu, come here. Take the point," the Captain instructed as he approached. The smile that burst across his face was painful. Kirk laid his hand on the man's shoulder briefly when he passed. As an afterthought, he squeezed it and leaned in close to the younger man.

"Hikaru, don't run. We're old men back here."

The trail was clear and the Helmsman showed noticeable restraint in not ploughing down it to find his friend. From Kirk's understanding, their massive differences had made for a rocky start in their relationship. It was not similarities that formed the most enduring friendships in this universe, however, the Captain considered: no, it was the differences that often laid foundations that were unshakable.

Kirk watched Sulu with a practiced eye. He was swallowing constantly, straightening his hair (oddly, a Chekov trait-not something Sulu usually did), reseating his pack, and shifting his clothes: he was, indeed, struggling with restraint.

"Hikaru."

The younger man turned, an odd look of trepidation on his face at the Captain's repeated use of his given name.

Kirk chuckled knowingly. "We're friends: I've used your name before."

The Helmsman leaned in to the Captain even as he kept walking. "Not on duty, Sir."

Shrugging, the Captain indicated the long, gradually sloping trail that lay before them. "We appear to have some time. I thought it might pass more easily if we talked."

Sulu's dark eyes glanced back at the man's hazel ones. Hell, he knew---Kirk meant it would keep their mind off their task.

"I've been wondering." Kirk stopped at that. Yes, he'd been wondering, wondering for a long time. So why was he asking now? Why was he asking Sulu? It suddenly felt deeply wrong.

The Helmsman eyed his Captain and Kirk saw amusement bubble up into their depths. If a person was really your friend, Kirk thought, you learned things from each other. Chekov's deep, soulful eyes were always full and expressive. Sulu had learned to do that by choice.

"Captain, if you asked him and he'd answer, I'll tell you." Needless was the affirmation that the opposite was true as well.

"I feel silly now," Kirk chuckled somewhat. "I just... was Pavel swaddled as an infant?"

The humor was shining in Sulu's dark eyes now and he grinned. "Well, now why would you ask that?"

"Don't tell me they still do that barbaric practice!"

Sulu burst out laughing and shot a glance back at McCoy. "It's a very old practice, so I suppose very few Russian's still swaddle their children. It's generally just done by the Traditional people in rural areas now."

"I've seen pictures," the Doctor continued, shaking his head as he lost his footing and slid several feet down the path. "They tie the child's arms and legs up to their bodies so they look like packages of meat! They can't even move," he rasped in disapproval.

The Helmsman stopped in his tracks and turned back to eye McCoy. There was a gleam in their dark depths. "Doctor," he said. "Russian's swaddle their infants because they think that facing the world suddenly is a little terrifying. Bundling them up in a warm cocoon makes the child feel safe, like they're still in the womb.

"You know how human infants have the ability to scream for no conceivable reason?"

McCoy simply nodded in response.

Sulu grinned. "Not swaddled infants." He started to turn away, but then glanced back at the ship's medical officer. "Do you know how they used to torture Russians?"

"Mozart?" he asked sarcastically.

Sulu merely shook his head. "Screaming infants. A person with a Russian Soul cannot handle a crying child. And yes," he added as his eyes fell on Kirk. "Pavel grew up in rural Russia, so I imagine he was swaddled."

"I knew it," the Captain intoned with satisfaction as he shifted his pack. "I knew it by his eyes." He turned to look at McCoy as they began moving again, walking almost sideways so he could talk to his friend.

"Those remarkable, wide, soulful, expressive eyes that some Russians have, Bones: when they're swaddled their eyes are the only way they have of exploring the world. They learn to communicate first and best with their eyes. It truly is an amazing cultural phenomenon."

Ahead of him, Sulu snorted as he stumbled down the narrow, steep path. "Ya," he said sarcastically. "Swaddling, that's it."

Kirk glanced at him sharply and actually did a quickstep to get up closer to him. "Hikaru, I've researched on the computer, spoken to several people--including Chekov--and the answer is always the swaddling."

"Of course it is."

The Captain clasped Sulu on the shoulder and stopped him again. He waited for him to turn around. "Are you trying to tell me all these people have misled me? Why would they do that?"

The younger man didn't blink. "You bought it, didn't you? Now how many Russians do you know with eyes like Pavel's? Did you think that they were all swaddled?"

Kirk's jaw shifted as he eyed the Helmsman. "So why the lie?"

Sulu shrugged his pack into a more comfortable position on his shoulders. "It's simple and people believe it.

"You can't really understand their eyes," he continued, "unless you're willing to take the time to understand the Russian soul."

Kirk's eyes didn't waver. Slowly, he folded his arms across his chest.

McCoy had moved up next to the Captain, his steely blue eyes locked on the ship's Chief Helmsman. He pulled his pack off and let it drop to the ground. "Looks like a good spot to rest."

 Sulu sighed heavily and rolled his dark eyes skyward. "Jim, it's the history of..." he sighed again, searching their faces for signs they would give up on the question. Their steady gaze held no release for him.

He let his own pack down onto the ground briefly. "The people that inhabit the Russian Federation have always been united by their community, their culture, and the inherent bond between their souls and the wild nature of their motherland. An old saying is that the serfs belong to the nobles, but the land belongs to the serfs.

"The lands of Russia have a history of being conquered, but not the people. The Huns, the Mongols, the Tartars, the Romanov Tsars, the Red Tsars.... one ruler after another inflicted their own brand of misery. The laws changed, the government changed, but not the people: they simply let the governments wash over them without touching who they were."

"Not even the Russian Federation in the 23rd century," Kirk commented with newfound knowledge. "That explains why the Russian peasants threatened to commit mass suicide some twenty years ago when the government planned to move them all to the cities and finally eradicate the rural villages."

Sulu nodded. "A Traditional Russian is indelibly bound to Rhodina. To separate them would kill both the peasants and Rhodina."

"I'm an idiot," McCoy commented easily. "Rhodina?"

"Rhodina means 'motherland'," Kirk explained.

"Not precisely," the Helmsman contended. "It's more of a...persona: like the soul of the land."

"If they can't be separated, than how do they explain people that leave, like Chekov?"

Sulu shrugged to McCoy in response. "Traditional Russians that leave bring Rhodina with them. Chekov carries her always," he said cryptically, tapping his chest.

"Okay, so what does this have to do with their eyes?" the Doctor asked.

"Well," Sulu continued. "The story is that during Tsar Mikhail's 'Time of Troubles' the Russian's found that despite their close-knit communities, trust could mean their lives. So, they learned to say everything that could not be said with their eyes, and by hidden meanings in their language."

Sighing again, Sulu pulled his pack up onto his shoulders. "Total trust comes dearly to a Russian. As Pavel once told me: being friends with a Russian is intense." He turned and began picking his way through the vegetation that now obscured the path beneath their feet.

"I feel like I'm with Chekov now," McCoy commented as he followed the Captain and the Helmsman. "I'm not sure your relationship with our Navigator has been entirely positive for you, Son."

Sulu laughed aloud, increasing his speed as if the topic had added to his energy. "Andrie--his father--taught me about their eyes, Doctor. What Pavel taught me was how to play 'Monks' and 'Cossacks'."

"Monks?" Kirk asked incredulously, not able to conceptualize how such a game would be entertaining.

The younger man's laugh grew deeper. "Believe me: you'd enjoy it, Jim."

"Still," the Doctor muttered as he struggled to keep up. "I'm going to recommend you spend less time in Russia while on leave."

Despite what Kirk expected the outcome of their current activity to be, he hoped that Sulu didn't heed McCoy's recommendation. For the rare and lucky few, careers in Starfleet made brothers out of men who would ordinarily not even have been friends. This is what his Chief Helm Team had found in each other--in an almost legal sense.

"When did you first go home with Pavel?" Kirk asked when he realized that they were walking in silence again, and thinking.

"I was his Big Brother at the Academy," he explained, referring to the archaic mentoring program which assigned all Junior classman a Freshman to room with and mentor for their last two years. "When he found out I had nowhere to go for Thanksgiving break, he dragged me home with him," Sulu answered without either turning or slowing.

"Uh," McCoy commented. "Thanksgiving is an American holiday."

"Wouldn't know it by how the Chekov's treated me. Not sure they ever had cranberry sauce before, though." The Helmsman giggled to himself.

"What about your Aunt's family in San Francisco?"

"Jim, growing up on a Space Station, I only came to Earth to meet that family a few times. I still barely know them. Frankly," he remarked. "I'm a lot closer to the Chekov's than I ever was to them."

They continued on in silence for a few minutes. Kirk heard what Sulu didn't say--what the Captain thought he probably didn't know. A self-described 'stuffy Japanese-American,' the Helmsman recalled his family as being loving, but distant. That was his explanation for his near violent reaction whenever his demonstrative Russian friend tried to hug him. Yet Jim Kirk believed it was Chekov's ability to embrace his emotions with such vigor that seemed to connect Sulu on a basic level to him. He imagined with no great stretch of the imagination that when surrounded by the passionate Russian villagers at Chekov's home that the endless, unavoidable bear hugs were a secret relief for the 'stuffy Japanese-American.'

"So," Kirk said, breaking his train of thought. "Other than these games, what else have the Chekov's taught you, Hikaru?"

The Captain winced. It must have been the wrong question because the younger man stopped in his tracks and stared off into the distance. When the Commander approached, the Helmsman began chewing on his lip uncharacteristically.

"Hikaru," Kirk said gently.

The younger man shook his head slowly. "It's not what the Chekov's taught me: it's what I learned from being around them," he said quietly. "About the nature of the universe itself." The man's voice trailed off and he stood silently until Kirk almost spoke.

"Jim," he continued then, "It's not that I believe: but I've learned to accept the inherent power in what they believe...to believe in the possibilities in our universe."

He glanced at Kirk then, meeting the warm hazel eyes with his dark ones. Sulu shot his eyes through the foliage in front of him them and smiled slightly to himself.

In immediate understanding, Kirk followed the younger man's line of vision. "Bones!" he whispered urgently.

He stepped aside to let the Doctor peer through the bushes.

There was a sizable clearing bordering the riverbank beneath them with a large fire roaring in its center. Squatting casually before the fire was the Enterprise's Chief Navigator.

"The impact with the water alone should have killed him," McCoy exclaimed, startled. "He should at least be ripped to shreds."

The Ensign wore no footwear and was stripped from the waist up, so it was clear that he was by no means 'ripped to shreds'.

"I'll be sure to have him apologize to you, Bones, when we reach him," Kirk said cheerfully. He was probably more surprised by Chekov's good fortune than the Doctor, and so had to count himself as more relieved to not have lost the services of probably the Fleet's finest Navigator.

"Well, Hikaru?" Kirk asked.

With a wild grin, Sulu took his commander's words as an order and plunged ahead with gusto at a break-neck, heart-stopping speed. As the other two officers descended at a more natural place, Kirk could see Sulu seize the younger man in an uncharacteristic bear hug. It was Chekov who appeared somewhat embarrassed by the unusual demonstration this time.

"For heaven's sake!" he sputtered as the Helmsman released him. "You'd think I was back from the dead!"

"To hear McCoy talk, you are." Sulu grinned then: a wild, beaming grin that sparkled in the depths of his eyes. "But I knew better. Matthew is here, isn't he?"

The Navigator straightened and glanced around the clearing. "Do you see anyone here but me? Are you hallucinating, Sulu?"

"Well, no, but...." The Helmsman stopped and took a moment to meet his friend's gaze and study what was there. "I saw your eyes before you jumped, Malyenki. I know he was there, so I knew you were alive.

"And," he added. "I know that he was in your cabin before we beamed down. You knew he'd be here."

Chekov's eyes stayed locked on his friend's. "Yasno," he answered calmly. 'I see: it's clear'--only between Russians it was a word that acknowledged an understood meaning beneath the surface that was far too dangerous to say aloud.

"Pavel," the Captain smiled easily and shifted the pack on his shoulder as he strode into the clearing. "You look..." he took a moment to eye the Navigator. "Well," he concluded succinctly.

In fact, the younger man looked more than well: whenever Chekov had his shirt off he seemed to transform into an entirely different person. He had the hard, toned muscles of an athlete and his well-defined chest was covered with thick, dark hair. Gone was any illusion of the fresh-faced, innocent young man dripping with boyish charm. The tattoo on the front of his left shoulder only completed the transformation of sudden, added years. Kirk wasn't sure what the design represented: he had never gotten close enough to actually see it.

Chekov brushed a hand over the tattoo and through his chest hair uncomfortably, and the Captain realized that he'd been staring.

"I was trying to dry my shirts and boots, Sir," he said. "They got wet."

"And not your pants?" McCoy rasped, glancing pointedly at the only garment the man still wore.

"I've had wet pants before," Chekov replied with irritation.

"If that was recently, my boy, we need to talk," McCoy drawled, blue eyes bright. "What I want to know," he continued, waving his tricorder menacingly at the ship's Navigator. "Is how you made it from that waterfall to here alive. You've only got bruises!"

Chekov stared at him, dark eyes wide and unreadable. He blinked then. "I swam."

Chuckling, the Captain let his pack down and found a seat on a nearby rock. "He does swim everyday, Bones. He's probably the strongest swimmer on the ship," he mused.

"Besides," Kirk continued as he stretched his weary legs before him. "If he hadn't taken his 'swim' they would have caught us by now on that road up there. I don't know why I didn't see this trail, but I didn't: and it saved our lives."

"Humph!" McCoy's utterance was less of a comment and more of a declaration as he dropped both his pack and his rear onto the hard-packed dirt ground and used a fallen tree as a backrest.

"Captain," Chekov intoned miserably from where he had taken a seat in front of the fire, "I must beg to report that I have destroyed the equipment I was issued for this landing party."

"By soaking it in the river," Kirk deduced immediately.

"Yes, Sir, I'm afraid so."

Kirk didn't say anything else for a long while, but simply stared at the youngest member of his bridge command team. His eyes shifted to the Helmsman, who now sat next to Chekov. "Lt. Sulu," he finally intoned.

The man straightened with noticeable surprise at the Commander's formal address. "Yes, Sir?"

"Hit him."

"Oww!!"

Chekov shot the Helmsman an evil glare and edged away, nursing his arm. "You can't hit a fellow officer!" he protested, his accent thick and eyes fierce.

Kirk stretched his feet now. "Since no Senior Officer's witnessed it," he commented, "I'm afraid it would be your word against his, Pavel. Frankly: I don't think I'd believe you."

The young man drew himself up straighter, his eyes wild with indignation.

Sulu's eyes sparkled and when they touched the gleam in his Captain's hazel ones, he burst out laughing. He edged back closer to his friend on the log they shared and actually leaned close enough to him so that their arms touched. "Pasha," he chuckled, "What the Captain is telling you is that your Russian soul's incessant need to feel guilty and in need of punishment for something is getting on his nerves!"

Chekov's indignation seemed only to grow dark. "It's not soul..."

"Dusha," Sulu corrected broadly: but he knew to a Russian it meant much more than the enduring soul other Terrans referred to.

"Forgiveness is a universal Christian concept," the Navigator said quietly.

"Oh, yes," the Helmsman said grandly. "I suppose this is a universal Christian prayer....'my merciful Lord, God Almighty, forgive me: but first make me suffer. I am the devil's creation. Torture me and make me cry out for mercy: make me suffer, Lord.'"

McCoy shot wide eyes at Sulu.

The Helmsman merely shrugged. "Russian Orthodoxy."

Any irate response that Chekov would have made was lost, along with his face, in folds of his shirt as he pulled it back on. Kirk had realized during the conversation that the slender black locket the man always wore hanging, nestled in his chest hair, was most probably an icon. And, remembering Sulu's earlier words, he realized it contained black Russian soil within it.

"You did rescue the most valuable piece of Starfleet equipment you had," the Captain commented.

The younger man shook his head as he straightened his shirt. "The tricorder and..."

"Tricorders can be replaced," Kirk said. "It takes years to develop a good command officers."

The man flushed.

"Hikaru, is that food you have?"

"Yes," he replied holding up the Starfleet issue field gear he held. "Pavel made stew."

"When did you do that?" McCoy asked.

"You took your time getting down here. I had to do something."

Kirk grinned as he dug out his own field gear. Indeed, Pavel Chekov was one of those people whose gusto for life demanded that he fill every waking moment: he was not a man who could idle away his time. The Captain smiled as well because, probably as a benefit resulting from his rural upbringing, Pavel Chekov could also make appetizing even Fleet issued field rations.

"This stew has meat in it," McCoy said, startled, as he chewed.

"Yes," Kirk agreed as he watched the stew being ladled from the cook pot buried in the fire's embers. "This isn't from a field ration. What kind of animal was this, Pavel?"

Chekov eyed the Captain's plate a moment. "It was furry, Sir."

Kirk grinned and, chuckling, leaned back to enjoy his meal. The young Russian replaced the ladle in the pot and stood, moving out of the inner circle of the clearing.

"Mr. Chekov?"

He hesitated with uncertainty. "Just going to wash my dishes in the river, Sir."

"Oh: fine."

"Don't fall back in," McCoy growled fiercely.

They finished eating and Sulu packed away the dishes and cookware that he had cleaned. Yet, Chekov had not yet rejoined them.

"Jim..." the Doctor drew out.

The Captain nodded. "I think I'll take a walk. Why don't the two of you take care of the bedrolls?"

Kirk made his way down to the nearby river's edge and carefully followed it's bank away from the waterfall. After a significant walk, he turned and followed its course in the other direction.

He froze suddenly. Well, hell, he thought, now what do I do?

He could see Chekov through the bushes. Still without his boots, he was sitting on his heels with his shins pressed to the ground and his eyes closed. Shit: he's praying.

Kirk took a quick inventory of his situation. The light was nearly gone now and he couldn't explain how he had come this close without the refuse beneath his boots alerting the Ensign to his presence. Backing away without being noticed would be nearly impossible. To make matters worse, the young man now quietly rose, picking up his clean dishes as he did so.

He turned and looked directly at his Captain with his dark eyes.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I did not mean to cause concern."

Kirk laughed instantly at the man's overactive conscience, but there was affection in the sound. The Navigator turned away sheepishly, his face coloring.

Moving up next to him, the Captain went to speak, but hesitated. The light from the one moon that had risen already was dancing on the dark, rushing water of the river and was reflected in the young man's dark eyes. They stood staring, captured by the sound and sight of the light playing with the movement of the water.

Chekov spoke quietly into the night then.

"'The people along the sand,

  all turn and look one way--

  they turn their backs on the land:

  they look at the sea all day.....

 The land may vary more

 But wherever the truth may be--

 The water comes ashore,

 And the people look at the sea.'"

Kirk stared at Chekov, mesmerized, while he spoke. The voice was a clear, rich tenor that was not entirely familiar. "Pushkin?" he guessed when the younger man silenced.

The Navigator glanced at his Captain with obvious puzzlement. "Frost," he corrected. "An American poet: 1864-1963. Robert Frost. The poem is 'Neither Out Far Nor In Deep.'

"Now they're probably thinking we're both lost," he professed dramatically as he unceremoniously moved past the Captain and back toward their make shift camp. "We better get back."

"Ensign...Pavel," Kirk inquired as he trotted a few steps to catch up with him. "If you can speak English without an accent, why don't you?"

"Hurts my mouth."

McCoy was effuse in his sarcasm when they returned. "Well, if it isn't the return of the lost boys! Nice of you to rejoin us: what kept you?"

Strangely, it was Chekov who stopped to stare into the Doctor's steely eyes. "Had get rid of Hook and Smee, didn't we?" he asked smugly before brushing past to where his bedroll now lay.

Kirk smirked at McCoy's unintentional reference to Peter Pan. "He was praying," he said under his breath to the ship's Chief Medical Officer.

"Well, if I survived what he did today, daresay I'd be on my knees too."

"You know that book he brings you always complain about?" the Captain continued. It was nearly standard for members of landing parties to bring hard copies of reading materials with them--only Chekov always had the same thick book. McCoy teased the Navigator that if it took a Russian that long to read 'War and Peace', than non-Russian's had no hope of completing the tome. "I'll stake the Enterprise herself that Tolstoy had nothing to do with writing the book he has."

McCoy eyed his friend. "Jim, you seriously think he's been carrying a Bible all this time? He's Orthodox, yes, but..."

Kirk shrugged and replied quietly: "Even I know the verse about not shouting your prayers on the street. You don't have to be obnoxious to be a devout Christian, Bones." The Captain smiled knowingly as he flopped down on his bedroll and pushed his still booted feet between the layers.

"Son," the Doctor drawled in concern, eyeing Chekov who was already lying on the ground buried in the half of Sulu's bedroll the Helmsman had sacrificed. (Chekov's was obviously still water-soaked.) "Chekov: your whole body will stay warmer if you keep your boots on, you know."

"Isn't there anyone else here that you can harass?" the Navigator growled with irritation.

"Why won't you sleep with your boots on?" McCoy demanded, unwilling to concede his point.

"Death penalty," the younger officer muttered.

"What?"

Sulu, who was still sitting up, wrapped his arms around his knees and smiled slightly. "He said 'death penalty'. It's against the law in Russia to sleep with your shoes on--it carries an instant death penalty."

"Why?!?" McCoy demanded, flabbergasted.

"Because Peter 'the Great' was an asshole," was the young Russian's quiet observation. "I'll put them back on, Doctor, if you explain to me how sleeping in wet boots is to my advantage."

"You could have just told me they were wet," the Doctor grumbled.

"Then you would have thought something was wrong with me."

"Gentlemen," Kirk interrupted easily. "Pavel, what I want to know is how you play 'Cossacks' or--what was it?--'Monks.'"

The Navigator leaned up on his elbows instantly and shot a glare at Sulu. He mumbled something under his breath before he looked over at Kirk. "Captain, the American game 'Spin the Bottle': you know it?"

Hazel eyes sparkling, Kirk grinned. "I think I have some vague memories of it."

Chekov nodded and lay back down. "These games: Russian versions."

Sulu chuckled, which caused McCoy to shoot a look of delight at the Captain. "Jim," he said, "I think we have the perfect set-up here. We have Sulu who can actually translate Chekov's answers."

"You grumble about the amount of information I give you now," the Navigator muttered.

"Hikaru, what is 'Monks' and 'Cossacks'--for real?" the Captain asked with a sigh.

"Well, it is like 'Spin the Bottle', I guess," he shrugged. "Only Russians are more passionate about everything. You know what they say: 'human response is stronger in the Russian people than in any other people, and it is what is best and noblest in them'." The Helmsman gestured broadly before he continued.

"'If you love--then love without reason:

  If you threaten--don't threaten in play...

 If you storm--to full fury give way...

 If you punish--let punishment tell...

 If you feast--then, be sure you feast well!"

"What?" McCoy demanded.

Kirk laughed aloud, pulling his bedroll over his own bent knees. "He's saying in Russia it's strictly an adults-only game, Bones."

"Hikaru?"

"Yes, Pasha?"

"If you refer to Russ one more time during this mission," the Navigator snarled, his accent thick. "I will use you to demonstrate the Russian method of tying up prisoners: and don't count on getting out of it before you strangle."

The Captain wrapped his arms around his knees. "What if we ask you something?"

There was no answer for a long moment, and then the younger man sat up again. He rested his weight on his palms and eyed Kirk. "Such as?"

"The reason people from other cultures have problems reading classic Russian literature is that traditionally Russians have--literally--dozens of nicknames," Kirk explained. "There are the standards for all cultures, and there are the derivations of your name: Pav, Pasha, Pavelotchka, Andriech." He paused. "So what does 'Malyenki' mean?"

"It's my name."

The Captain frowned, but didn't have time to formulate an appropriate question.

"It's what everyone has always called me. Like you call the Doctor 'Bones'."

"But what does 'Malyenki' mean?" the Captain persisted.

The younger man shrugged. "Just my name. Pavel is Russian for Paul--which means 'Little One.' 'Malyenki' means 'Little One' as well."

An explosive burst of laughter came out of the Helmsman.

Kirk and McCoy exchanged a grin. "Why, Hikaru, have you some clarification to add?" he prompted with delight.

"Just that I have never seen anyone laugh as hard as Andrie Nikolaievich when I mentioned that explanation to him."

"He didn't laugh that hard," the Navigator muttered and lay back down.

"Jim," the Helm officer said, eyeing his commanding officer. "I swear it's the only time I've ever made anyone's father actually wet his pants."

"So what does it mean?" the Doctor asked with actual interest now.

Sulu shrugged. "Well, it does mean 'Little One': but it has nothing to do with the meaning of  'Paul'. You see," he gestured with a smile, "his father is the 'Big One' and he," he said jabbing a finger at his supposedly sleeping shipmate, "is the 'Little One'."

"'Big' what and 'Little' what?" McCoy questioned.

It was Chekov who sat up and fixed the medical officer with his dark eyes. "Doctor, if you have lived and worked with me two years and can't come up with any appropriate adjectives, than I think you have a problem." He lay back down and fixed the covers over himself with determination.

"Little Shit," the Helmsman said brightly. "Spoiled brat, pain in the ass, pig-headed..."

"They GET it."

"Doesn't seem like an acceptable nickname for anyone," McCoy muttered under his breath.

Kirk smiled slightly and settled back into his bedroll. He understood the Doctor's misgivings, but he had also heard Sulu use the name, and there was affection obvious both in his voice and Chekov's demeanor in hearing it.

The morning dawned clear and they had a quick breakfast of their tasteless field rations and Kirk's bitter coffee. Chekov's boots must have finally dried, as he was fully dressed, wearing his pack, and waiting at the head of the trail with Sulu while the two senior officers finished collecting their supplies. It didn't make sense to simply wait for the Enterprise in the clearing Chekov had found--they more likely would have been found by the party following them or someone else first. They had to keep moving.

The Captain stood and let his eyes shift from the trail the Helm Team were at to the trail that sloped down to the river bank. When the Doctor joined him, he motioned to the junior officers.

"Gentlemen," he said. "I think we should take the trail that follows along the river bank. Following flowing water is always a best bet."

Sulu began to move, but hesitated when Chekov stood fast. The younger man turned to stare down the trail that led deeper into the forest. He turned back to Kirk.

"Captain," he intoned evenly with an uncharacteristic heaviness in his voice. "I scouted down there yesterday and the trail disappears into the river: it becomes impassable."

Kirk blinked and straightened noticeably. He studied Chekov. This was not a shallow or immature young man. The trust and loyalty of the Enterprise's Navigator was a hard-won commodity and, once given, steadfast. Kirk felt a not so subtle pride at the devotion he had earned from the Ensign.

So why, Kirk thought, is he lying to me now?

The Captain had not gone far enough down the trail in question to have actually seen the area Chekov may be speaking about. It was from those wide, familiar, Russian eyes and the man's demeanor that Kirk knew without doubt that he was lying.

Why?

The question went out of his thoughts as quickly as it appeared. The Navigator's loyalty was unquestionable--if he were lying it was to get Kirk to do what he was convinced was necessary. This was apparently something Chekov also knew he hadn't the time to argue with the Captain about.

"Fine, Mr. Chekov," was his answer to the man aloud. "You take point, since you're the only one here who grew up around woods of any actual size."

"Yes, Sir."

The Ensign disappeared down the trail, the Helmsman close on his heels. What they spoke about while they walked, Kirk couldn't hear--but he was sure it was the same inane drivel that occupied he and the Doctor. Chekov was attentive to his assignment while he moved, however. A glance back at the Senior Officers caused him to alter his rapid pace. The three command officers were athletic and trained for endurance. Not so the Doctor, who could not have possibly kept up the pace the Navigator originally set for the entire day.

The trail diverged several times. Each time, Chekov hesitated only an instant before choosing a course and taking it with assured confidence.

"He's flipping a damn coin," McCoy growled as he drew up short and thrust a hand in the young man's direction. "He's not making any kind of real decision: we're probably lost."

Kirk sighed, taking a moment to stop beside the Doctor. "Since we're only trying to keep alive until the Enterprise arrives, we don't seem to be lost." His hazel eyes sparkled. "And I don't think they flip coins in Russia, Bones. They play Russian roulette."

"Captain!"

Kirk jerked his head toward the Navigator and was more alarmed by the panicked look on the young man's face than the urgency in his voice. "Bones, MOVE!!" he spat out.

The Captain sprinted after his Helm Team, grabbing onto and pulling his Doctor along behind him. This time Chekov avoided the wide, meandering path to the left and dove into the bushes to his right. How he knew there was a trail there was unexplainable: but it nonetheless was. Or at least its remains were.

The Navigator slashed at the thick vegetation with his arms as he tore through the forest at breakneck speed, his feet slipping and jerking painfully on the rocks and freefall underneath his boots. The brush whipped back at Sulu, who did a passable job fending them off since he didn't need to determine where he was going.

"Hurry! HURRY! BISTRO!" Chekov screamed.

Whether he was still on a trail or not became inconsequential as the group of Enterprise officers barreled through the brush as though they were on an out of control amusement park ride--neither on the tracks nor with brakes. They followed swiftly along a lichen-covered rock face until they found the Navigator stopped ahead.

"Doctor, in here," he gestured urgently as he pushed on the carpet of vines clinging to the craggy rock face and revealed a meter-wide crevice. "All the way back: sideways. Hurry!

"C'mon, Sulu: get in. Feet against the wall. Captain..."

Kirk shook his head as he glanced in at the cramped cavity. "Too small. I'll go down..."

"GET IN!!" Chekov snarled, dark eyes demonic. He pushed his commanding officer down and in against the ship's Helmsman and followed in after him. Packs pressed against the rock, knees smashed against their chests, hips careful not to crush their neighbor's feet and hair brushing against the dusty roof of the small hole, the four Enterprise officers settled in with the comfort of any group of sardines.

As the foliage fell back into place, the Navigator sighed. He let his headrest back against the crevice's wall and closed his eyes.

"Chekov, what the hell..."

"SHH!"

Further comment from the Doctor dissolved into the heavy sound of tramping feet and bodies crashing through the brush outside their cavern. From the amount of noise, there was far too many to be the group that originally pursued them on the road above. If they were scouts, searchers, or just a hunting party, it wouldn't have mattered. The Enterprise group were outsiders and they had already discovered what the local culture did to outsiders. The thought brought clear, eloquent images that consumed their minds.

They stayed cramped silently in the dim crevice long after the sound had disappeared in the distance. The Captain did not know why, but he knew Chekov seemed to have a sixth sense about their safety in these woods. The Navigator had somehow found this tiny cavern and got them into it in the nick of time, with seemingly no warning of impending danger. Sounds off in the distance came and went, and could have meant doom for the Enterprise party if they were still hiking. Kirk was willing to wait for Chekov's directive.

At the time, the young man's head still leaned back against the wall, his eyes still closed. Captain James Kirk had the remarkable, undeniable impression that he had actually fallen asleep.

Chekov started, his eyes blinking open suddenly. They blinked several times, adjusting to the faint, eerie green tinged light that surrounded them.

Kirk smirked. He had been asleep.

The Navigator peered out through the vines without saying anything to his companions. He couldn't possibly see anything, the Captain reasoned: the interwoven vines were thick enough to obscure them from outsiders and, therefore, too thick to see out of.

Unlocking his legs from their cramped position, Chekov crawled out under the foliage. "Davai," he muttered, but then recalled himself. "C'mon: time to go."

"Jim," the Doctor gasped under his breath as he tried to pound the circulation back into his feet. "Could you possibly tell me why you seem to have put our young Russian friend in charge of this landing party?"

"He's not in charge," the Captain said. "He's just got the point for our hike: and since we all seem to still be alive, I think he's doing a damn good job. If you have any specific complaints, let me know."

McCoy's only answer was a low-throated growl as he fell into step behind Kirk again.

Chekov led them from the nearly non-existent trail they had been on, through the forest, and back onto one of the main trails. The track now seemed luxuriantly wide despite the fact that it as only a meter wide. They walked on for hours, hesitating only long enough to dig out field rations to gnaw on while they continued on their way.

The path began a descent again. A gentle slope at times, a steep drop at others. The Captain realized this meant that the river had fallen into another waterfall somewhere along the way. He absently wondered how large it was.

"Jim," the Doctor asked with a sigh. "How long...?"

Kirk shook his head. "Another thirty-six hours before the ship returns, Bones. Better to not think about it."

"Cliff," Chekov informed those behind him helpfully. He slowed his progress and cast his eyes downward at the rough, steep rock terrain falling away from his Starfleet boots. He secretly hated these boots and he considered how he had never confessed his well-thought out arguments against them to anyone. He longed for the soft, real leather boots he wore in his homeland. Hell, he thought, he'd even find his bast shoes preferable at a time like this. The Starfleet-issue footwear he wore rolled off what he thought a somewhat level edge and he realized with horror the inevitable.

"FUCK!!!"

He dropped instantly out of sight of the rest of the party. Sliding, jerking, tumbling down the rock face and the forest that edged it, Chekov finally slammed into crumpled heap at the bottom. His pack was somewhere lost along the way.

"Gospodi pomiloi," he gasped, gripping his stomach. The Lord have mercy....

McCoy and Kirk brought themselves up quickly to the edge of the cliff.

"I didn't know Chekov knew any English swears," the Doctor said in amazement.

"Apparently, he does," Kirk commented absently as he stared down the cliff. "Sulu," he continued as the Helmsman scrambled down after his friend, "Be careful: we don't need two people injured.

"That goes for you, Bones," he added as he started down the cliff carefully.

"Pavel! Pasha!" Sulu called, finally reaching the bottom of the cliff and rushing over to Chekov. The Navigator was still kneeling on the ground in the bushes, crouched in a fetal position and muttering in a steady stream of Russian.

"Malyenki," Sulu exclaimed, "boodty z'dorovy!"

Chekov laughed quietly, wincing as the amusement shook his body. "I did NOT just sneeze, Hikaru!"

"Well, hell," the man objected, "I don't know that much Russian and it means 'be healthy', doesn't it?"

The younger man laughed again. "Da, da: spachibo bolshoye."

"You're welcome very much. Are you alright?"

Given that he was kneeling on the ground curled around his arms, the Navigator thought that it was an incredibly moronic question. "Da konchno." Yes, of course.

"McCoy's going to kill me," he muttered. "God, keep him away."

"Now if you die, I'll have to lay off half my staff," the Doctor growled as he approached. "Who would keep us busy?

"Why don't you move over here and lie down so I can get a better look at what you've done to yourself, son."

"Nyet, nyet, nyet," he muttered miserably to himself, shaking his head.

"Pavel," McCoy said, his voice more gentle this time. "I need room..."

"I can't..." The Navigator's voice cracked. He swallowed before speaking again. "You don't want me to move. Bad idea."

The Doctor straightened, gripping his tricorder in alarm. Moving quickly over to where Chekov knelt, McCoy swept his medical tricorder over him. "Jesus Christ Almighty!"

"Please don't blaspheme," the younger man murmured quietly. "Not now."

The Doctor blinked. His relationship with the ship's Chief Navigator could best be described as a passionate version of his relationship with its First Officer. Chekov hated Doctor's and made McCoy fight for every inch of professional ground he won. This request the Doctor had to honestly say was the first time he'd genuinely encountered the young Navigator.

"Sorry," he said, subdued. He eyed the young man as he ran the tricorder over him again. That Chekov knew to remain where he was spoke of a maturity that was not always apparent when he was practically gushing with his natural charm and wit. The Doctor sighed loudly after a moment. "You do like to make me work for my pay. Try not to move while I get you out of here."

The man worked in silence without disclosing what he was doing. Kirk and Sulu stood uncomfortably, watching the varying shades of discomfort play over the Navigator's face.

"Give me a shirt!" McCoy demanded suddenly.

"Whose?" Kirk asked, moving to where they had dropped all four packs.

"Mine, his...I don't care!" the Doctor growled. "Give me yours: I'll give him a thrill and make him a Captain!"

Kirk couldn't help but grin at the notion as he threw his spare shirt to McCoy. The Doctor folded the garment and pressed it to Chekov's left side as he moved him slowly toward where the rest of the Enterprise officer's stood in the path.

"Another shirt!"

With Sulu's shirt, McCoy tied the Captain's in place against Chekov's side.

"No, no...granny...other way..."

"Chekov, will you just shut up and let me work."

"Granny won't...Sulu!"

"Worry about your Grandmother some other time," the Doctor rasped.

The Helmsman edged closer carefully. "Pavel?"

Chekov winced. "Granny...fix..."

Frowning, Sulu peered around McCoy. "Doctor," he said as Kirk moved up behind him, "He's trying to tell you that you tied a granny knot, not a square knot: it'll come loose."

"What," he growled. "Now he's an Eagle Scout?"

"Young Pioneer," the Navigator boasted with a smile.

The Captain scowled at him, but it only made him grin wider.

"I'll fix it," Sulu offered.

"Bowlin'."

"Bowlin'?" the Helmsman repeated curiously. "Pavel, I don't remember..."

"Tree."

"Oh, oh ya." Taking a sleeve in each hand, he hesitated again. "So which one's the tree, Pavel?"

Chekov giggled, pain stabbing across his face.

"Who are the Young Pioneers?" McCoy asked the Captain, knowing full well he'd been left out of some joke.

"Soviet Union's version of the Scouts: only they taught communism, not rope tricks. Don't you have sterile bandages?" Kirk asked as he eyed the tricorder he'd pulled out of his pack.

"Not this big," the Doctor said absently. When Sulu returned to the path, McCoy carefully helped the Navigator crawl to the edge of the trail. His right arm still gripping his stomach, Chekov paused painfully as his knees touched the path.

"Radi boga!" Sulu exploded. For God's sake!

The Captain's eyes shot up at him, his gaze quickly following the Helmsman's line of sight. He realized instantly what Sulu had: Chekov's left side had been impaled on a large tree branch. There was so much blood staining the wood that the red fluid was dripping off it and pooling on the ground.

"Hikaru," the Navigator growled low in his throat.

"Sorry," he replied. "It was in Russian, so I thought it was okay."

"Oh," Chekov acknowledged with a quiet sigh, pain shadowing across his features. "That explains a lot: I never realized God doesn't speak Russian."

Sulu shifted as his friend's eyes glanced up at him with amusement, and the Helmsman's face colored. "Well, most of the Russian I've learned from you isn't appropriate here, if you know what I mean."

Nodding, the young Russian shifted his gaze to the Doctor with gratitude as he administered a painkiller finally. "Since two of the people here don't speak any Russian, Sulu, no Russian is appropriate. It's rude."

"Jim," the Doctor said quietly, moving the Captain aside. "I need somewhere to work on that boy, and he's not going on his own."

"Understood. I found a clearing not far up ahead when I scanned. We can make camp there."

"Chekov's not walking," McCoy rasped.

The Captain smiled slightly. "It won't be the first time I carried him, Bones."

"Hope it's not too far," the Doctor muttered under his breath. "I don't need two patients."

The young Navigator didn't need his magnificent Russian eyes for Kirk to see that he was totally mortified at the notion of his Captain lugging him through the woods. He tried several protests, but each time strangled into frustrated silence, unable to develop even a reasonable argument against the horrible idea.

McCoy and Sulu each toted two packs as they followed the Captain to the clearing he'd identified. The Helmsman could see that Chekov's knuckles on Kirk's shoulder were white, but he uttered no sound as they moved. It was when they finally reached the open space and the Captain set him down near the center of the packed dirt that the Navigator gave a strangled gasp.

Kirk and Sulu gathered wood, started a fire and set up the bedrolls while McCoy quietly tended to Chekov.

"Wish we had some of Pavel's furry little animal," Sulu said as he swung an empty cook pot in his hand.

The Captain smiled. "Yes. I don't suppose he's passed on any of his cooking secrets to you?"

Shaking his head, the Helmsman grinned. "I could do wonders with seafood, rice and seaweed." Smile faltering somewhat, he glanced at his friend lying on the ground. "Pavel doesn't eat seafood," he murmured almost as an afterthought.

"Let's see what we can do with our rations," Kirk encouraged.

The Captain wasn't entirely sure of their success but it seemed to occupy Sulu while they made the attempt. He moved away to straighten his bedroll as McCoy approached.

"Well, Bones?"

The Doctor shook his head with a heavy sigh. "I don't know, Jim. You saw him fall. That boy should be dead: every bone broken, skull cracked, organs burst..." He sighed again. "He's got a concussion, bruises, and that massive wound in his side. I've sealed the blood vessels to stop the bleeding, but I doubt I can stave off the infection that is surely to come in this environment. He'll lose consciousness soon.

"But he should be dead already," the Doctor protested quietly. "I can't explain it. His whole side was ripped open; he was actually gutted by that wood. Jim, not one organ was damaged. That there is the luckiest person I've ever met."

Hazel eyes regarded the Doctor, sparkling. "Seems I remember you making that remark before, Bones." He moved over to where the Navigator lay and sat down on the ground next to him.

"Pavel?" he said quietly. "The Doctor seems to think you're a lucky young man."

For a moment, the Captain didn't know if he'd been heard. Chekov finally swallowed and pulled his eyes open slowly. He turned their dark depths on Kirk and stared at him a long moment in silence. The quality in the darkness of the gaze was unfamiliar to Kirk, and he wondered if it was the remnants of the pain or McCoy's drugs that gave it the strangeness.

"Don't suppose I see it the same way as the Doctor."

The Captain grinned, silently amazed again at Chekov's unfailing wit and ability to make light of even the most horrible situation. You have to keep life in the proper perspective, he had once asserted to Kirk. Russians know the glass is already half empty.

"Well, I guess I'll have to take your resignation as tour guide," he continued out loud as his hazel eyes surveyed the clearing. "This is probably a good place to hang low until Spock gets back with the ship anyway. That is if we can endure our own cooking." He chuckled. "Pavel, because you decided to take the quick way down, we're all probably going to need to be treated for malnutrition!"

Dark eyes frozen on the Captain, Chekov gasped his breath in rapid gulps. The look in his eyes was clear. It was desperation.

"Captain, we can't stay here."

"Don't worry about it....Pasha," he replied after a hesitation. "Just heal, or you know the trouble McCoy will give you."

"No, no, nyet...."

Sulu approached at this, kneeling on the other side of the Navigator and pulling a bedroll up over him. "Malyenki, relax," he coaxed softly.

"Nyet, nyet, nyet..."

"The tricorders can only scan those dozens of trails," the Helmsman reminded him. "Even Spock would take days to analyze which way to go: and the natives are always moving. We can't go anywhere without you leading," he added. "It's not possible, Pasha."

Chekov's eyes were closed now and his hands clutched the bedroll in fists. "You...have to...go..."

"No," Sulu growled.

"Da."

Sulu gave Kirk a significant glance. "How?"

He didn't get a response for a long while, then Chekov began a slow, disjointed, cracked whisper. "Hik...Hik..." Stopping, he continued after a moment in even more of a confusing mumble. "Phil....Phil...4...6...Is.., Hikaru...30...20...1.  Rabbits..."

Chekov lost his battle, his face relaxing after the pain and effort to communicate overtook him. McCoy stepped over and checked his patient.

"He's unconscious." Seeing the look his words caused on both his companions faces, he smiled reassuringly. "It's best. He's not in pain and it'll give his body extra energy to heal."

"I wish I knew what he was trying to say," the Helmsman murmured, distraught at the feeling that he'd somehow let his shipmate and friend down.

McCoy stood up. "Seems you were right about Chekov's book, Jim," he commented, then glanced at the Helmsman. "He's quoting Bible verses to you."

"Bible verses?" Sulu asked with alarm. 

"I grew up in the Bible belt in the United States," he said defensively. "I recognize a Bible verse when I hear one. Chekov was saying Philippians 4:6 and Isaiah 30:21."

Scrambling to the pile of packs, the Helmsman started digging through them frantically.

"Hikaru," Kirk reminded him quietly. "His Bible's in Russian."

"No, no...Papa gave me one of my own to carry."

The senior officers exchanged a look, but neither pointed out what Sulu had undeniably called Andrie Chekov. There were distinct ways in which Pavel Chekov was, at times, the 'Big Brother' in their friendship. He had shared with Sulu both his family and his faith. Not, the Captain thought ruefully, that he could ever call either a prude. With Chekov's pretty face and boyish charm, he was as...active...as he could ever want to be. Only Kirk understood now why he had a particular liking for the anticipation.

"Here it is," the Helmsman said, standing abruptly as he began to rush through the thin pages of the palm-size book he held.

"Matthew, Mark, Luke..." he recited to himself. "Isaiah?" he asked, his voice becoming distraught.

A slight smile played on McCoy's face. "Old Testament. What do you have there, just the New Testament?"

Sulu turned the book over and looked at the cover as though he'd never read it before. "New Testament, Psalms and Proverbs."

The Doctor nodded. "Common version to carry. Don't worry. My Southern Baptist Grandmother made me learn Bible verses whenever I..." He stopped, cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I learned a lot of verses. I remember those.

"Phillipians 4:6 is...well, I don't remember them verbatim anymore," he said apologetically. "Basically, it says to pray for what you need: let God know your needs.

"The Isaiah verse..." McCoy stopped again and scowled at Kirk, folding his arms across his chest. "I guess we were both wrong about how he was choosing the trail. Isaiah says a voice will tell you which way to go: right or left. 'This is the path--walk ye on it."

Kirk chuckled. "Well, I'm glad this 'voice' had a better map than we."

McCoy looked at Sulu apologetically and shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't help you with the rest. I can't say I ever remember running across any rabbits in the Bible."

The Helmsman was standing, uncharacteristically subdued, twisting his small Bible into a roll. He finally shrugged sheepishly. "I know what rabbit he was referring to. Pavel was saying a Bible doesn't work like a rabbit's foot. Just carrying it around doesn't do any good.

"Is he okay?" he added.

The Doctor shifted his jaw. "He's lucky he only got the injuries he did," he said. "I've stopped the bleeding and I'm here to deal with any complications that arise before we get him back to the ship."

"With his luck and pigheadedness, Hikaru, you know he'll be all right," Kirk added, saying what the Doctor professionally could not.

"Luck has nothing to do with it," he mumbled. "I'm going for a walk." He spun on his heel and pushed his way into the nearby brush.

"Sulu!"

Kirk grabbed McCoy as the Doctor lunged after him. "Let him go, Bones. He won't go far."

The Captain reasoned that it was the brightening of the sky that woke him. It was definitely not, he thought ruefully, the smell of Chekov's coffee. He naturally got up earlier than everyone else, and it was a testament to the basic generosity of the Navigator's nature that he made coffee for everyone. The young Russian didn't like the stuff.

With a sigh, Kirk kicked his way out of his bedroll and climbed to his feet. He found Sulu already up and pacing quietly around the clearing.

The Captain immediately went over to Chekov. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he could detect no change in the Navigator. Whether unconscious or sleeping, the man was still breathing in a steady rhythm.

Sulu's behavior, however, was alarming. The Captain could see that the usually unflappable Lieutenant was more distracted than he'd ever seen him. He moved constantly, pacing in odd geometric variations and peering into the forest.

Kirk stood from beside Chekov as the Helmsman paced up to his feet.

"Malyenki," Sulu whispered. "Tell me what to do."

Chekov's eyes opened sedately: the movement of a man neither unconscious nor asleep. He regarded his friend with a warm gaze. "Who am I now--a Romanov Tsar?" he asked with a thick accent. "I'm no one to tell you what to do."

"Pasha!" the man said with exasperation. "What should I do?"

The Navigator closed his eyes with a sigh. "I'm going to lie here, because that's what I was told to do. What were you told to do?"

"Pavelotchka!"  Sulu spat out in frustration. He spun, his eyes piercing the forest behind him.

"Hikaru!" Kirk insisted, grabbing the Helmsman's nearest arm as he became more alarmed. "It'll be alright. We're just going to wait here for the Enterprise. Just hours now..."

"NO!" Sulu growled, jerking away from the Captain violently. "We can't stay here! They're out there," he rasped, dark eyes sweeping the forest urgently. "Don't you understand? We have to move. We have to move--NOW!"

"Hikaru," Kirk said steadily, "We can't move Pavel: it will kill him."

The man leveled somber, steady eyes at his Captain. "No, it won't. You two get the packs: I'll get Pavel. We have to get moving again," he added in a throaty, urgent voice.

The Captain moved to speak again, but stopped, frozen as his hazel eyes caught Sulu's dark ones. That was not fear or even panic that filled their dark depths. His eyes were seized by the determined pig-headed assurance Kirk was more apt to expect from his Chief Navigator. Something in his Chief Helmsman simply knew they were not safe here.

"Check the tricorder."

"No," the Captain said. "We'll get moving."

Kirk was not the kind of man to discount even the vaguest hunch. Only one thing bothered him. Chekov.

He looked at the Navigator and stilled. Chekov: who had somehow climbed to his feet by himself, despite his massive injuries.

"I know you tease him about being shorter than you, Sulu," McCoy was saying. "But five six is not small. How do you expect to carry him for eight hours?"

"I have no idea," Sulu answered simply.

"Over your shoulder," Chekov said, motioning to the Helmsman to bend down to facilitate the process.

Sulu hesitated after he stood again with the Navigator bent over his shoulder. "Pavel, the blood is all going to rush to your head like this."

"Great," he answered brightly. "Mr. Spock will be pleased with my increased capacity to think clearly."

"More likely, you'll pass out," McCoy observed.

"Even better."

"We have to stop if the wound starts bleeding again," the Doctor insisted.

"Instantly," Sulu agreed. "I'll feel it on my neck. This way. Hurry up."

"Why are we doing this?" McCoy growled with irritation after they had snaked through the dense forest for several hours.

"I don't particularly relish the idea of being eaten alive, Bones."

"We might have been just fine waiting back there."

"When you're trying to avoid capture, it's best to keep moving."

McCoy's jaw tightened. "Maybe best for us," he rasped pointedly.

The Captain glanced at the Doctor and couldn't say he didn't understand the man's misgivings. He picked up his pace and caught up with Sulu. Chekov hung limply over his left shoulder, unconscious, as he had been for most of the day's journey.

Kirk had offered to take the man's burden several times, but Sulu had refused, saying he wasn't in the least tired. The Captain decided to confront the Helmsman head-on.

"Hikaru," he asked, "Do you think we can risk a short rest? McCoy wants to check his patient."

Sulu stopped, glanced at Kirk, and then turned his eyes to peer down the trail ahead of them. He nodded after a moment. "Ya, we'll be okay."

Kirk took hold of his Navigator's shoulders and helped Sulu ease him down onto the trail they stood on. As they moved out of McCoy's way, the Doctor scowled at the Helmsman.

"What--now you've developed some sort of telepathy that tells you if there's beasties in the woods ahead?"

Sulu didn't take the bait: he just smiled. "Guess I have."

McCoy ignored him and set about examining his patient.

"We've still got four hours to go," Kirk commented, taking time to survey the leafy canopy above them. "Hikaru, why don't you dig out some of those field rations: we didn't have breakfast and we'll need our energy."

"Yes, Sir." He moved toward the packs the senior officers had put down, but hesitated. Eyes sweeping over the nearby bushes with interest, he plunged a hand through the foliage and came out with a pink, oblong orb. Kirk saw, but too late, as the Helmsman took a ferocious bite out of it.

"Sulu!" he gasped in horror. The man was too seasoned an officer to make such a fatal mistake.

The Helmsman smiled as the Doctor scrambled to his side. "Sweet. Firm meat, like a peach or a mango."

McCoy let out a long, low-throated growl of disproval as he scanned the remainder of the fruit in Sulu's hand.

"Humph. Like a nutrition bar: it's got both protein and carbohydrates."

"But is it fit for human consumption?" Kirk asked.

The Doctor shoved a finger at the ship's Chief Helmsman. "He's not dead." He leaned closer to the Captain as he turned, mumbling. "Seems safer than those field rations."

"They're all over the place here," Sulu commented as he deposited several into each of McCoy's and Kirk's hands. The Captain waited for him to take a seat next to the Navigator lying on the trail before he bit into one of the fruits and eyed McCoy.

"Chekov?" he asked with trepidation. Had Kirk jeopardized the young man with their travels?

The Doctor shook his head. "It can't be good. Our clothes seem to have turned into some material I can't scan through, and I can't get the 'bandages' off."

"What do you mean you can't get them off?"

McCoy threw the pit of one fruit away and bit into another. "Damned if I know. I can't budge the bandages, can't even get my fingers under the edges. It's like they've been glued on." He shook his head, chewing thoughtfully.

"Doesn't seem like it could mean anything good," he intoned, "But I suppose nothing nasty can get into the wound. We'll be able to get them off in sickbay," he concluded.

The Captain turned his eyes to the canopy above them again. Being only four hours from their rescue, this game of eluding non-seen captors was wearing on him. Perhaps since they weren't in a clearing, their presence wouldn't be obvious and they could wait.

"We have to go."

The pronouncement ended his thoughts. He stepped quickly over to Sulu, who was already pulling the unconscious Chekov to a seated position.

"Here, let me take him now, Hikaru."

"NO."

The Captain helped him sling the Navigator over his shoulder again without further argument. Grabbing two of the packs, he hitched one over each shoulder and followed Sulu off into the woods.

Kirk refused to look at his chronometer while they moved. It had seemed like hours, but he knew the human brain's ability to judge time was sketchy at best. It would have been disheartening to find they'd only hiked for twenty minutes. The thing was set to sound an alarm when the Enterprise was scheduled to arrive anyway.

Scheduled.... the thought was dismal. So much could delay the ship: and so much depended on its arrival. Could Chekov survive that long, longer?

It was the thought of his Navigator that made Kirk realize the young man suspended ahead of him was alert. Well, conscious, he corrected himself. The Captain wasn't sure what the definition of 'alert' was at this point. He moved up to Sulu's back--and Chekov's head--and began to say something to halt the Helmsman's progress, but a sharp glance from the young man stopped him. As they continued, the shadows washing across that young face in waves said that Chekov was less than comfortable in his current situation. Kirk went to motion the Doctor for at least some more painkillers, but the Navigator's pinched mouth and fierce eyes forestalled that idea as well.

The Captain smiled slightly at the man's stubborn tenacity as they continued on. Soon, he noticed Chekov squeezing his fingers into fists and shifting them into various positions. His hands had fallen asleep hanging limply below his head, Kirk realized. He was searching for some other way of positioning them to stave off the numbness. The only real available option was to shove them in the waistband of Sulu's pants.

Kirk and Chekov grinned together.

Not an option.

The Captain stepped closer and, reaching out, grasped the Navigator's hand and raised it near level with the man's head. Dark eyes warmed in understanding and Chekov interwove his fingers in Kirk's.

Now, at least, he felt he was doing something: albeit a small something. As they continued down the rough trail, his mind wandered in seemingly random directions--spurred on by the hands in his. He wondered first how anyone was surprised that young looking Chekov had hair on his chest and limbs. Did they actually think the hair on the back of his hands disappeared once it hit his shirtsleeves?  Next, the Captain thought of the long, graceful fingers he watched work at the Navigation Console on nearly a daily basis and how soft he could feel they were now. Eloquent, expressive fingers...so much like Spock's.

Kirk considered the image of Spock's elegant fingers enticing rich symphonies of sound out of the piano with his elegant fingers, and thought that the finger span he saw in Chekov's hands as they worked would be the envy of any musician.

Chekov loved music, the Captain considered. The Navigator could be found with great zeal in the middle of any impromptu music in the rec room and he never missed either amateur or professional concerts aboard ship. On shore leave he sought out performances. Yet, Chekov neither sang along nor played an instrument.

The Navigator gave Spock enough of his time and energy, Kirk suddenly decided. Chekov volunteered to assist with nearly all the First Officer's pet research projects after hours, in part because he simply couldn't stand being idle, and in part because he enjoyed the challenge.

There was no reason Spock couldn't repay Chekov's time and effort. Kirk would have the First Officer teach the Navigator to play the piano when they returned to the ship. As good a Navigator as he was, his math skills were certainly good enough to transfer to music and his hands were expressive enough to play. He must simply have not been exposed to an instrument in his youth. Indeed, the Captain decided with relish, Uhura could also help the young man become comfortable enough to join in rec room sing-alongs.

Sulu stopped then and Kirk realized they were in small clearing. Chekov dropped his hand.

"Are we stopping?" The Captain hoped there wasn't as much optimism in his voice as he felt.

The Helmsman hesitated, looking around the clearing in obvious confusion. "I don't...I don't know."

"Put me down, Hikaru," Chekov instructed in a pinched voice. "We're stopping."

Kirk and Sulu eased the man down as gently as possible. The Russian he muttered as he settled back against the dirt had a decidedly non-polite tone to it. McCoy was instantly kneeling at his side with a hypo spray in his hand, but Chekov knocked him away.

"Nyet, nyet."

"You're a pain in the ass," the Doctor spat out in a snarl.

Sulu's eyes swept the clearing expectantly, rubbing his arms as though he was cold.

"Here," McCoy stopped him after having been shooed away from his more obvious patient. "Let me check the strain on your shoulder and back muscles."  A scowl burrowed its way through his brow as he stared at the readings playing over his tricorder screen. He lowered it after a moment. "Go ahead: go on."

The Helmsman eyed him with interest. "No hypo?"

"Why?" the Doctor asked. "Do you feel you need something?"

Straightening slightly, Sulu shook his head. "No, not really."

"Fine. Come back if you change your mind. You know where I'll be."

Kirk sighed as McCoy joined him on the edge of the clearing, his eyes sweeping the unchanging foliage around them. One part of this forest looked like every other part they'd passed through. "So how long am I going to be short a Helmsman?" he asked.

"Why?" the Doctor intoned. "Is he planning a vacation?"

The Captain glanced at him with a frown. "He hauled Chekov around for..." he finally eyed his wrist chronometer. "Seven hours."

One hour, Kirk thought with relief. They only had one hour left.

"I don't want him back on duty until there's no sign of strain."

"Well, I can't find any sign of strain," McCoy said. "I can't professionally explain it, but he's fine. I guess Chekov is lighter than I thought," he quipped.

The Captain eyed the Navigator where he now lay on the ground. Chekov, for his part, was taking in quiet, ragged breaths. A subtle moan escaped with the exhaled air occasionally despite what Kirk could tell was determined efforts to quell the sound.

"We'll wait here," he said. The Chief Navigator could not be moved again--not humanely. "It's not long now," he added.

Sulu glanced at him sharply. The protest Kirk saw in his eyes went unvoiced and he turned away, dark eyes guarded.

"Captain...."

Kirk spun toward the desperate voice and found that his Chief Navigator had made his way up to a sitting position. "Lie down, Pavel," he insisted as he went over to him.

"Captain, Captain..." the man's accent was so thick, Kirk wasn't sure if he wasn't actually saying the Russian word for Captain.

"Tricorder...get.... tricorder."

"My tricorder?" Kirk asked lightly as helped Chekov settle his head back against the ground. "Well, yes, I suppose you must mean my tricorder. If I recall, you still owe the Fleet to replace yours, Pavel. I'll get it. Hold on."

It could only help to pass the time, the Captain reasoned as he went about getting the piece of equipment at a decidedly leisurely pace. As an added bonus, it would obviously soothe Chekov's nerves as well.

"Captain..."

"Lie down, Pavel," Kirk spat out, this time his voice purposefully stern when he saw the Navigator was leaning up on his elbows again. "I've got it."

He stood and activated the scanner to please Chekov. His eyes sedately watched the readings as the random incoming information was interpreted, analyzed and then presented on the viewer. His insides went suddenly cold.

"Shit."

"Jim, what is it?" McCoy asked with alarm.

"They're out there," Kirk answered grimly. "Everywhere. We're surrounded." The Captain took time to eye his Chief Navigator. How had he known they were out there?

"Thank God the Enterprise will be here any time."

"Not soon enough," the Captain observed, tightening his jaw. "They're closing in on us from every direction. We've hiked into a trap," he continued, shaking his head.

"No," Sulu protested. "That's not possible."

"Not your fault," Kirk bit out quickly. He scanned quickly and found a rock outcropping on the trail ahead that had tumbled into a makeshift cave. To get there, they would have to run directly at one set of the approaching attackers. It was a defensible position, however, and Kirk knew they could get there before the natives.

"You must not go."

"Bones!"

"On it," the Doctor proclaimed as he dove for his medical tricorder.

Kirk's eyes were locked on the individual that had suddenly appeared at the edge of the clearing. Adrenalin surged through him in preparation for the confrontation he had faced a thousand times in his career.

The man was dressed in a simple belted tunic, trousers and knee high boots in earth tones. Nothing in his non-descript facial features, thick, long copper-colored hair or neatly trimmed goatee implied he was anything other than human.

"Definitely not a native, Jim," McCoy announced. "I'd say he's human, only he's got several extra organs whose use I can't even begin to guess at. There's no detectable degeneration either: he could be a day old, he could be thousands of years old for all I can tell. He doesn't seem to need to eat," he mused to himself.

"That would be acceptable, Leonard," the newcomer intoned in a gentle voice, his face passive. "I regret that we do not die, however."

McCoy jerked his head up, lowering his tricorder as his face flushed with color. "Telepath," he intoned after a minute, turning his eyes to Kirk. "I was thinking how much I'd like permission to do an autopsy so I could get a good look."

Kirk paced carefully toward the man. "You'll have to excuse us," the Captain stated guardedly. "We've had less than promising contacts with strangers here."

"I am aware that the hospitality of this planet's natives is less than appetizing."

Sulu snickered at the pun until Kirk shot him a glare.

"Matthew," the Helmsman said, nodding at the newcomer.

"You know this man, Sulu?" the Captain asked quickly.

"Captain," Chekov gasped. Kirk turned and glared at the half-vertical man. The moron is actually trying to get to his feet, he thought.

"Lie down!" he growled. "You're not doing anyone any good with your 'noble' behavior."

"Relax, Pavel," Sulu urged. "It's okay, Matthew's here."

Chekov had followed his Captain's orders only to the point of settling back down on his elbows. His soft brown eyes shifted to follow the Helmsman's pointed gaze. He stared at the newcomer silently.

"That's not Matthew," he stated quietly before he finally lay back down.

"What do you mean, that's not Matthew?" Sulu demanded irately. "Of course it's Matthew."

Sighing, Chekov pushed himself up on his elbows again with difficulty and looked back over at the newcomer. He shook his head slowly. "I know Matthew, Hikaru. That's not him."

Sulu stiffened noticeably. "He led us here, Pavel," the Helmsman insisted breathlessly. "When you were unconscious. If it isn't Matthew, who is it?"

"Daniel," the newcomer said sedately.

From his place on the ground, Chekov looked at Sulu with the utmost tolerance. "He says he's Daniel," he quipped needlessly, but characteristically.

The Lieutenant's face grayed. "Who's Daniel?" he asked, dark eyes shifting to the newcomer.

The man remained still and silent, his face impassive.

"You led us into a trap," Sulu bit out in an even accusation.

Kirk's eyes shifted from the newcomer to the Helmsman. He didn't need to ask him the apparent question. Moving carefully over to the ship's Chief Medical Officer, his hazel eyes scrutinized the stranger. "Bones, could any of those organs make him capable of..."

"Affecting human neurons so he'd appear visible to one of us and not the others?" McCoy asked knowingly. "Hell, for all I know, he could sprout wings."

This brought a gentle smile to the stranger's face.

Well, Kirk thought ruefully. He has a sense of humor.

"Why are you here?" Sulu asked carefully, pacing toward him.

"I am here to assist you," he stated calmly.

"Where's Matthew?" an accusing tone edged into the Helmsman's voice.

"Here."

"Jim!"

"I see him, Bones," Kirk said, his eyes on the second stranger now standing at Chekov's head. His clothing matched Daniel's, but he was taller and broader, with brown hair and blue eyes.

"Matthew," Chekov remarked.

"If you're Matthew, why weren't you helping me today?" Sulu demanded irately.

"Daniel assists you. That is not my directive," he explained.

"Well, Matthew," Sulu bit out with irritation. "For the last seven hours I've..." he hesitated, eyeing the subtle amusement that played on the stranger's face. "I didn't do anything, did I?"

Matthew smiled gently. "You asked for help, Hikaru."

"We don't need your help," Kirk bit out angrily.

Blue eyes sweeping the foliage around them, Matthew's gaze finally came to rest on the Captain. "They approach."

"Captain..."

The stranger put his boot on the Navigator's shoulder and pushed him back down unceremoniously. "Lie down and shut up."

"Sulu," Kirk bit out a summons as he paced back away from the two men. The Lieutenant glanced at the strangers before summarily joining his Captain on the other side of the Navigator.

"Matthew," Kirk ordered, "Move back. Get away from Chekov."

Eyes widening with less than subtle amusement, the man nodded and edged back toward Daniel.

Phasers, the Captain mulled with determination. They're not natives...wouldn't be a violation of the Prime Directive. Oh, hell, of course it would.

"We are here to help, Jim. You must not leave this place."

"Matthew, we don't need your help," Kirk retorted again, jaw hard. "I've handled worse situations than this without you. Your help," he pointed out evenly, " has lead us into a trap: get out," the Captain growled at Matthew, then shot a piercing look at Daniel.

"You are an authority of consequence, Jim," Matthew intoned sedately. "Our directives do not come from humans, however."

Lines furrowed their way through through Kirk's brow. Eyes fixed on him, the Captain moved toward the man carefully. "You were sent here to help us?" he prodded carefully.

"The moment the request was made, the command was given."

Kirk held the man's gaze. "Than go to whoever gives you your directives and tell them that you're not carrying them out."

The man stared at the Captain in silence before finally shaking his head. "There are those who have chosen to do so," he commented quietly. "We do not choose to be among them. To be servants is our place."

"Than you're slaves," Kirk sneered. He gestured broadly. "You need to think for yourselves, make your own choices!"

"I choose to serve: and I find great joy in what I do."

"Yet, this...person...your directives come from sways judgment over your lives."

Daniel smiled radiantly in amusement at that. "No, Jim, it is your kind who will judge us."

"They come," Matthew said suddenly, stiffening. "Now."

Kirk jerked his head up at the sound of breaking brush in the forest surrounding them. Behind the strangers, behind the Captain, to their left and right: they'd arrive at different times, but they could all be heard. He swore at himself as he searched quickly for a branch sturdy enough for defense. They're probably a different race of natives, sent to distract us so we wouldn't be prepared. Damn it, it worked.

"Jim," McCoy warned urgently, "Storm."

Kirk froze, rising his eyes to the foliage.

"This is just great," the Doctor proclaimed. "Just what we need now."

"Maybe it is," Sulu suggested, turning slowly to stare at the strangers.

The Captain's hazel eyes quickly took in the occupants of the clearing and the forest surrounding them. Strangely, both Matthew and Daniel's hair were being pulled at by the wind as it mounted in intensity. Kirk could feel no movement in the air where he stood, however.

"Tricorder," McCoy interjected, thrusting the device at the Captain.

Kirk activated the device again and stared at the readings on the screen. "Shit," he said again and snapped it shut. The air was driving with such force now that full-grown trees bent nearly double before it. In the frenzy, debris whisked from the forest floor and torn off the bushes and trees blasted sideways in a milky white ferment. The roar from the fury expanded until it was nearly deafening.

 The weather in the clearing was remarkably fair and clear, however.

"Jim!"

"We seem to be in the eye of a hurricane," Kirk observed. His eyes swept their surroundings and the direction of the wind. It was circling them. "Tornado," he corrected.

McCoy rushed over to him, blue eyes bright. "Doesn't the eye of those storms pass over and you end up in the storm?"

"On Earth, yes," the Captain agreed. "There's no telling how the climate on this planet acts, though, Bones. We don't know what to expect." He thrust a descriptive hand toward the torment in the surrounding forest in a somewhat mute point.

At that instant, the wind suddenly stopped. The sound of the debris falling onto the forest floor filled the air like hundreds of automatic weapons being discharged.

"Well, I didn't expect that," observed McCoy.

 The Captain flipped open the tricorder in his hand again. "No sign of the storm anywhere," he said. "No sign of...Bones, they're all gone."

"I'll say," the Doctor conceded.

The Captain glanced over at him sharply, then followed the man's line of vision. The Enterprise landing party was alone in the clearing. "What happened to Matthew and Daniel?"

Sulu shifted uncomfortably, but made no move to respond.

"They just vanished when the wind died," McCoy contended. "Not dissipated, or dissolved--just weren't there anymore. They left, Jim."

"Nyet..." came Chekov's weak whisper. "Never leave...."

The Doctor went over to him. He shook his head, glancing back at the Captain. "Unconscious again. We need to get him back to the ship, Captain."

The shrill sound of Kirk's wrist chronometer split the air.

McCoy eyed at him. Moving closer, he cleared is throat and confided: "In my professional opinion, this has been one weird mission, Captain."

Settling his shoulders, Kirk replaced the tricorder in his nearby pack and pulled out his communicator. He fiddled with the controls for a minute--McCoy had a way of illuminating the obvious--before actually activating it.

"Kirk to Enterprise."

"Spock here. Are you ready for beam out, Captain?"

"You have a gift for understatement, Spock-O boy."

"Please reiterate, Doctor. We did not receive clearly."

The Captain smiled. "We're prepared for beam out, Commander. Alert sick bay to have a stretcher team report to the transporter for a critical patient."

"Acknowledged."

Kirk waited until McCoy and the sickbay team had left the transporter room, Sulu on their heels, before he motioned to the First Officer.

"Spock, I want to talk to you."

"Yes, Captain. I trust Mr. Chekov will be resuming his duties in a short time?"

Kirk grinned at the man's unemotional expression of concern. "If I know Mr. Chekov, he'll be back to work long before the Doctor either finds out or approves."

"Indeed, that would be characteristic."

The Captain nodded. "I want you to do something for me, Spock. When our Chief Navigator's back on his feet, I want you to spend some time with him teaching him to play the piano."

The First Officer regarded him silently, his face impassive. "Captain?" he finally asked with a note of curiosity.

"Humans aren't the only species that are better people by expanding themselves, Spock. I know you realize I can make better officers out of my people by exposing them to more than the latest combat techniques. You understand, don't you?"

"Yes, I understand," the First Officer acknowledged. "I am merely in a quandary as to how to carry out this order."

Kirk's eyes narrowed. "Now, why would that be, Spock?"

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "Because Mr. Chekov has been assisting me to improve my technique with the piano for several months."

Eyes widening, the Captain straightened. "Are you trying to tell me---he's been teaching you?"

"Human music expresses much depth of emotion. Even when my technique is flawless, as a Vulcan, I find it difficult to capture the spirit the composer intended. Mr. Chekov is quite gifted."

Hazel eyes bright, Kirk grinned. "Spock, are you trying to tell me that you're at a disadvantage because Vulcans don't use their emotions?"

"No, Jim: merely that human music is illogical in its composition."

"I see," Kirk commented after a moment. He added: "But Chekov doesn't play in the rec rooms."

Spock nodded. "He appears to devote his time to learning new pieces, and relishes the most complicated arrangements he can find."

Characteristic, Kirk thought, but commented out loud: "Not like rec room music. No 'What Do You Do With A Drunken..." he hesitated and watched as the First Officer raised an eyebrow knowingly. "Spaceman," he substituted.

"I'll bet the little shit can sing too," he muttered as he walked away.

Refreshed from peeling a weeks worth of grime and sweat away, Kirk hesitated as he stepped into the Chief Surgeon's office. McCoy was seated at his desk, stylus in his hand, but it was instantly apparent from his distant eyes and frozen stance that something far from the room held his attention. The Captain glanced from the office into the closest of sickbay's rare private rooms. McCoy reserved this particular room for those under his care he thought bore watching.

Currently, the ship's Chief Navigator occupied the bed.

Well, the Captain reasoned, at least he assumed it was Chekov in there. Sulu, Uhura, Chapel, Riley, Avdeyev, and various others of his crew he didn't want to waste time identifying were gathered in the room, obscuring his view. Although he clearly guarded his privacy, Pavel Chekov was well liked.

"Is he going to be alright, Bones?" he asked with quiet concern.

The Doctor blinked and looked up at him, obviously surprised to see the Captain standing there. "Oh, yes," he nodded after a moment. Setting the stylus down and leaning back in his chair, he gestured vaguely into the air. "I put everything back together the way it was originally built: not something entirely uncommon in my dealings with Chekov. Strangely enough, there's no sign of infection. He should be back on duty as soon as his concussion settles down.

"I'll keep you posted, Captain," he added.

Kirk stood eying the man silently. He moved over and perched on the edge of the desk, leaning on his thigh. "So, what's the matter, Bones?"

Chuckling, McCoy shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "It's just this landing party seems to have dug up...the ghost of my grandmother, I guess."

"Ah," Kirk observed with a slight smile.

"Chekov and his damn Bible verses," the Doctor growled under his breath. "And those...men." With a sigh, he finally raised brilliant blue eyes to his friend.

"Jim, I'd let you say I was crazy if we hadn't met Apollo a few months back. I mean, anything's possible, isn't it?"

The Captain nodded sedately, his eyes fixed on his friend. "This universe if full of possibilities, if nothing else. What's bothering you, Bones?"

"Things that Matthew and Daniel said keep coming back to me," he explained. "'The command was given as soon as you asked', 'you will be judging us', 'our place is to serve', 'serving fills us with joy', 'humans don't give us our directives': they're all Bible verses, Jim."

"Bones..." Kirk began gently, turning and dropping his leg back on the floor with his backend still on the edge of the desk. An affectionate grin traced over his features.

"What about the other things?" McCoy insisted, leaning forward on the desk. "They don't age or die, they were able to appear out of nowhere, and appeared to only Sulu and Chekov to guide them."

"Extra organs," the Captain reminded him. "Bones, we've met many alien races before. Why do these men suddenly have bible verses bothering you?"

The Doctor pursed his lips, then raised his eyes to solemnly meet and hold Kirk's gaze. "'Humiliate and disgrace those trying to kill me.... blow them away like chaff in the wind'," he quoted soberly. "Psalm 35," he added.

The Captain straightened slowly and curled his arms across his chest. "What is it you think all this has added up to?" he asked quietly without a trace of emotion in his features.

McCoy shook his head, chewing on his lip a minute. "I guess I'm embarrassed to say it."  He paused, then, with a sigh, continued the quote he'd started. "'Blow them away like chaff in the wind--a wind sent by the angels of the Lord.'"

"Bones," Kirk drawled with a smirk finally creasing his features. "Are you trying to tell me we just met--and were saved--by a couple of angels? Actual Biblical angels?"

The Doctor looked sheepish, but the determination didn't leave his eyes. "'He orders his angels to protect you and guard you wherever you go,'" he quoted again. "Chekov said they never leave, Jim: and he's obviously met Matthew before. I'd bet," he added conspiratorially. "Matthew had something to do with him jumping into the waterfall. The only other option is that he went insane. And that," the Chief Medical Officer concluded dramatically, "wouldn't explain why he didn't get hurt."

An easy smile lit up the Captain's face. "Not just angels, Bones, but Guardian Angels?" He forestalled his friend's protest. "You're right, of course. The universe is nothing but possibilities."

The smile broadened. "Doctor, our mission is to contact new life forms. I'm certainly in no position to discount your theories. Oh," he added, hazel eyes sparkling. "Don't forget to quote and cite all the actual verses in your detailed report."

"Jim!"

The Captain burst out laughing at his friend's horrified reaction to the research involved.