Dreams For Sale
The stars that shone in the starfield before him were in a familiar pattern. After years of space travel, however, their oddly sedentary forms made his stomach queasy.
The thunderous silence that enveloped him as he studied the stars screeched along the bones of his inner ears. He equated the utter lack of sound, of any fundamental vibration or movement in the vessel around him, to the vacuum of space. He quietly hummed an old, familiar song while he worked to stave off the unnerving silence. It was the same song man sung for centuries as he returned to his homeport.
The cotton rag in his hand was saturated with it oil and Chekov carefully and methodically rubbed it deep into the grain of the wood. He had always considered wood to be an example of the oddities in the way the universe worked.
While growing and alive each tree needed care, water, sunlight and the special soil and whether conditions required from a distinctive place on Earth. Wood was downright fragile despite it's solid density. Growth rings proved good years and bad: bore repeated scars of insects, injury and disease. As a Russian, his peasant's soul was strangely melded with the soul of the birch tree, a mystic connection to the species whose bark was bizarrely useful only when harvest during three specific weeks of the year.
When harvested, equal blocks of wood from different tree species were astonishingly different in weight and density, as well as a magnificent variety of color. Each one bore properties that distinguished the tree as especially suited for its own special purpose. They all belonged somewhere in the construction of a ship.
Ships are the nearest things to dreams that human hands have ever made. Chekov mulled over Richard Rose's words as he lovingly worked the oil into the wood under his hands.Live oak was best for the hull and knees. White oak would do, but red oak was a poor second. Pine for the decking, locust, ash, cedar, ironwood, beautiful purpleheart: every tree had its place in a ship.
When they came together, a formidable soul formed that anyone whose travels followed the stars could feel.
Chekov sighed softly and carefully refolded the cloth in his hand before turning the wheel to another area. Wood still needed thoughtful attention after it was milled. It dried and grew brittle and ugly without it. At least here, no insects would attack it.
He felt the familiar presence approach silently from behind. The Captain lingered there before moving around to block Chekov's view of the starfield. He stood and watched as the Commander cared for the ship's wheel so lovingly.
"I never did thank your father for the wheel," Kirk commented quietly.
"He didn't expect it," Chekov observed without looking up at his Captain. "You know what he said–it's not a ship without a wheel and a bell."
Kirk smiled in agreement, his eyes falling to the brass plaque in front of the ship's wheel. Its words were obscured by a thick white film. "Can I help?" he asked.
Chekov nodded silently, indicating a clean cloth on the deck.
Kirk knelt down and carefully began polishing the plaque. He did so with a lingering sense of guilt. Chekov's father had seen to it that the wheel, brass plaque and ship's bell was placed before the viewscreen in the Captain's lounge of the Enterprise when it had been refitted. They had appeared here in the Enterprise-A when it was finished as well.
While the ship had a maintenance staff that saw to its upkeep, he knew that it was Chekov that had seen to the wood and brass in this lounge. Kirk had intended to polish them occasionally, but the time never seemed to present itself. The methodical task seemed to soothe the younger mans nerves, to connect him back to the stars they all followed.
The Captain stopped and considered his work silently. He rubbed a particularly stubborn spot, pinching his lips together in concentration. He stood back up when he was satisfied.
Kirk reached out, slowly letting his fingers wrap around a rich wooden spoke on the wheel. He caressed the warm, vibrant handle, thinking how real and alive the material felt in this world of the synthetic. He turned his head, hazel eyes searching the panorama of stars spread before them.
The Captain smiled softly, a faraway shine in his eyes. "They're different for us," he intoned as he stared at the stars. "The stars are different for us, Pavel."
He looked back at the Commander and still saw the stars–brilliantly reflected in the man's soulful brown eyes. Kirk's smile deepened and he continued. "For most people this is a job.
"Traveling where the stars lead has always offered opportunities for those with heart enough to follow. In wooden ships, in steel ships, in starships...it's always been the same stars guiding mankind. Good jobs, if you can handle the danger." Kirk stopped and looked back at the night sky again.
"They used to say the sea got into a man's blood," he said. "For some men, for the special ones...once they went to sea, they were trapped by it. Even on land, it held their souls forever. They were wrong."
He cast a wry grin back at his former Navigator. "It wasn't the sea at all: it was the stars. The same stuff that makes up the very stardust in the universe makes up men's souls. The call of the stars can trap a man's soul: the right kind of man. It hasn't changed.
"Star travel is just a job: unless you're the kind of man who gets trapped by the stardust in your soul. There are enough of us left, Pavel: men who understand the basic traditions we can't even begin to explain to the others."
Chekov's eyes narrowed as he regarded his long-time friend and he screwed up his mouth ruefully. He didn't need Kirk to say the obvious: Commander Chekov was the only other person left on the Enterprise-A. "So, we're the only people left aboard and the Captain has to be the last to leave? Couldn't you just have said that?"
Kirk gave an elaborate shrug. "Wouldn't have been the same.
"The ship is being decommissioned," he continued. "Usually, they'd be on her as soon as she was in spacedock to salvage anything still useful. They seem to be waiting until the Captain leaves before they turn her into a skeleton this time. Out of respect, perhaps?" he ventured with a tone of mock humility.
Chekov hesitated in closing the bottle of oil, glancing back at Kirk sharply. He said nothing, however, and returned his gaze back to his supplies.
"Pavel, it's time to let her go. The universe has changed and her time has passed."
"Do you really feel that way, Jim?" he asked quietly as he put the bottle down. He received no response and found Kirk staring at him when he turned around. "I thought so.
"It's true that you're planning to retire, isn't it?" he continued.
Kirk carefully folded the cloth in his hand in thought before he dropped it into Chekov's pile. "I considered it, seriously," he replied finally. "Our peace with the Klingons has made this a different universe than the one I was captain in. I accepted a promotion too early once: thought it was time to make way for a new generation of commanders. I was wrong at the time. I'm not wrong this time."
He stopped Chekov's immediate protest. "I was a captain in a universe of war, Pavel. I was a good soldier captain, but I was never a diplomat. I never pretended to be. This is a universe of peace now and the captains we need are a new breed of commanders. They're going to be our front line diplomats. This universe needs them to forge this peace."
Kirk stopped another protest. "I'm not retiring. I'm going to teach. I think an old relic like me may still have something to pass on to these youngsters."
Chekov's smile mirrored the relief that was in his dark eyes. "You've definitely left your mark on our current captains: Spock, Sulu, Uhura..."
"Sulu is smart to have chosen you as his First Officer. You have a fundamental gift with people, Pavel. You're one of the best. Even when it was just with your stupid jokes, you have a skill at controlling a situation that is...well, it's mesmerizing."
"Mmm," Chekov mused, grabbing hold of the wheel again. "Well, I'm spoiled and diplomacy is the art of letting others have it your way."
"Your abounding humility continues to be vastly annoying, Commander."
"I'll try to remember to work on it, Sir."
"Please, do: you have no hope of becoming a better liar. You're a good diplomat because you know how to listen. Sulu made a good choice," he reaffirmed.
Chekov stiffened brittley. He turned his attention to rubbing his thumb into an invisible spot on the wheel's spoke.
"I'm not going to be the first to speak," Kirk commented after a moment. He'd known the younger man long enough to know something was wrong. He didn't fool himself into thinking he could read the Commander better after all these years, however: Chekov simply didn't hide as much any more. He considered Kirk a friend.
It also didn't surprise the Captain that his comment didn't bring about the smirk he was seeking. He really wasn't that good a diplomat.
"If there were dreams for sale, what would you buy?"
Kirk blinked. Hard. "What?"
"Dreams, Jim," Chekov repeated, raising huge, dark eyes to the Captain.
Kirk felt something wilt inside, as if his very soul was laid raw and open. The depthless eyes scrutinized it blatantly. It was a talent he was glad Chekov used rarely.
Chekov's breathless voice echoed in the lounge again. "If there were dreams for sale, Jim, what would you buy?"
"Is that Alexander Pushkin?" the Captain asked casually, letting go of the wheel and stepping away to look at the stars again.
The avoidance did bring a slight smile to Chekov's face now. "Boeddes," he corrected, watching the older man. "My grandfather contacted me by subspace radio on the way in," he added.
"I imagine not Nikolai Chekov, the agricultural engineer," Kirk commented. That's how the little shit knew about quadro...whatever. Pavel Chekov was an intensely private man and it took a lot of trust before you really found out anything about him. Moreso, he was a fierce individual: downright menacing about standing on his own feet and being able to take credit for all of his own accomplishments. Nepotism was about the filthiest word Chekov knew.
The man was outright neurotic about it, Kirk considered. Only a bizarre set of circumstances had alerted the Captain to the fact that Chekov's grandfather was a Starfleet Admiral. A Fleet Admiral, no less. If he had any stomach for nepotism, Chekov would have been serving on his Uncle's ship all those years ago and would had sailed up through the ranks.
Kirk smiled: something completely out of context at the moment. At the time, the Ensign had explained he wanted to serve on the best Captain's ship. He was profoundly serious in the statement. It was the first time Kirk had a glimpse of the man that Chekov hid from everyone.
"Uhura didn't mention Admiral Leonov had called," the Captain said aloud.
"Yes, well, it was a private call," Chekov murmured. Uhura usually would have logged the call anyway. She must have known...
The Commander cleared his throat. "My promotion came through. I'm on the posting list."
Kirk turned to flash a wild smile at the younger man. "While you've been working your way up all these years, we've been quietly waiting for you to arrive." His smile wavered after a moment and his eyes sparkled charmingly. "I don't know who said that," he shrugged. "I think I read it in a fortune cookie."
Eyes sparkling devilishly despite himself, Chekov outright giggled in response. "Yes, well..." He cleared his throat. "With the crisis in the Klingon empire, they're going to need every Captain they can get their hands on. The ships will be coming out of docks half built. They'll need every one," he commented, his hand caressing the wheel in front of him.
James Kirk paced deliberately up to the younger man. "Don't diminish yourself. Don't diminish the captaincy." It was an order.
Chekov's huge dark eyes stared at him. They somehow absorbed the starlight rather than reflected it. "I'm not sure I'm going to accept it."
Kirk blinked hard again, confusion furrowing its way through his brow. "Sulu will find another First Officer," he insisted, knowing the man's sense of loyalty was as overworked as his sense of responsibility.
Shaking his head, Chekov's eyes never left the older man who he'd come to consider a friend. "I may resign."
It was Kirk that went cold now. He did any number of things in no particular order: frowned, blinked, shook his head, gestured in futility and frowned even deeper. Hazel eyes came to rest on Chekov's right hand that still caressed the wheel lovingly. The Captain steadied himself again, and knowingly drew in a deep breath.
"It's a question of dreams, Jim," the younger man insisted wistfully.
Jaw growing hard, Kirk did everything he could to not respond honestly. "You're going back to the Russian Navy," was all he said. Chekov had served on one of his country's sailing ships as a youth before he was old enough to enter Starfleet. Kirk loved those wooden ships himself and outspokenly admired the Russian Federation for restoring and maintaining them as a living history museum. He understood the younger man.
He just didn't agree with him.
"I haven't decided that," Chekov was saying. "I just..." he stopped and stared at Kirk another moment. He couldn't even begin to form the thoughts into words yet. "I haven't decided anything, really.
"But I may resign," he repeated.
"Think about it," Kirk ordered. "Think hard." He paced away deliberately, hazel eyes cold as he considered the situation. Thrusting his hand at the stars that dwarfed them, he turned back to face the Commander.
"Look at them," he ordered. "Look at the stars. Your father once told me that they call to men in different ways. The stars call some men to travel with them as their guide: they call others to travel amongst them. You're meant to out here, Pavel, not staring at them planetbound.
"Besides," he added bluntly. "The Fleet needs you. Sulu has already made it clear–loudly–that he believes the Fleet needs to continue its edict of exploration and growth. He's right, of course: and there are plenty of commanders that agree with him. There are others who just can't bring themselves to deal with the Klingons. We need captains who are also diplomats," he restated his earlier opinion. "People like you and Uhura. You've already both begun to learn Klingoni," Kirk observed knowingly.
Chekov straightened defensively. "It was embarrassing," he declared, his accent thick. "We could have gotten us all killed before we ever got to the peace conference."
"True," Kirk agreed, smiling. "But it's not as easy when you were a toddler, and you like a challenge." The Commander had picked up every language he currently knew while traveling with his parents as a child. "You live for a challenge," he continued. "And that's what the Klingon empire has to offer you now: the greatest challenge the universe could find for you. Take it, Pavel."
A soft sigh came out of the younger man and he smiled at the man he had followed his entire adult life. A man whose opinions he had rock solid faith in.
But at the moment, Chekov couldn't explain how he felt to him. How could he, when he couldn't explain it to himself? "It's more than that, Jim," is what he said. "It's more than that."
The stars from the viewscreen shone brilliantly in the depths of the man's dark eyes: but Kirk could see how painfully glassy they were as well.
The Captain nodded in understanding. "You can talk to your father when you get home," he said. "He's the one person you can talk to about anything." An unusual man who managed to stay a parent while still being his son's best friend, it was a quality Kirk had always admired.
Not the only person...Chekov thought. A single tear burrowed its way down his cheek. "Sorry," he said roughly as he saw Kirk's eyes flit over to it. He made no move to wipe it away. "Sometimes, I'm just..."
"Russian," Kirk concluded with a slight smile. "I'm sorry it's taken this long for me to accept your invitation. I'm looking forward to spending some time in your homeland with you."
"I'm not sure Dr. McCoy is looking forward to it."
Shrugging, the Captain grinned. "I can talk him into just about anything. I don't know how you managed for Captain Sulu to take a leave now too, however."
"It's what he wanted," Chekov commented. "He just didn't know it."
Kirk moved up to the wheel again, taking hold of it firmly with both hands. "They're waiting, Pavel."
The Captain was right: Chekov was good with people. That's why he knew Kirk wasn't referring to Sulu and McCoy. He let another tear escape.
"C'mon," Kirk urged. "I'll make sure the wheel makes it onto the Enterprise-B."
Chekov's stomach turned and he swallowed hard as the Captain moved past him in a physical command. He wondered how Kirk would feel if he knew the truth about the ship they were on: it was insane. He couldn't tell him.
"I've been invited to attend her launch when she's ready," the older man was continuing as he paused at the door. "Why don't you join me?"
A shudder overtook Chekov and the stars he stared at froze, their light suddenly cold. "I don't think I'm interested," he bit out.
"Wouldn't you like to see the beginning of another generation aboard her?"
"Not particularly," he answered with a hallow tone.
"We'll talk about it. Come on, I'm giving you unparrelled opportunity to brag about Russia. You may never get this chance again."
Chekov stared at the stars another moment. "I don't need to brag while we're in Rhodina," he said, turning to look at the Captain. His hand tightened on the wheel. "She speaks for herself."