When Chekov had finished giving his report that afternoon, Kirk didn't look up from what he was doing.
"Are you sure?" the Captain asked.
"Absolutely, Sir."
The man nodded in thought for a moment, then leaned back to consider the metal bucket at his feet. "Would you like to finish this, Ensign?"
"No, Sir," the younger man replied emphatically.
Curiosity creased Kirk's forehead. "Mr. Chekov, you grew up in a rural Russian village: miking a cow by hand must be second nature to you."
"You misunderstand, Captain," the Navigator said evenly. "Russian peasant villages are basic communal societies. Some tasks require everyone's effort, but otherwise individuals do that they're best at so the entire community benefits from each person's unique talents."
Kirk pointed to the bucket again.
"Sir," Chekov insisted. "I milked a cow–once. It was decided that it was not to the mutual benefit of the cow, me or the community."
Amusement bubbled into the man's hazel eyes, a smirk crossing his lips. "What did they decide was to the mutual benefit of both you and the community?" the Captain inquired as he stood and carefully moved both the bucket and stool, then released the animal.
"Captain," the Navigator reminded him heavily as he quickly scrambled back out of the animal's way. "They sent me to space."
Kirk laughed out loud. He couldn't help it. "Ensign, we both know full well that space exploration wasn't meant as any form of banishment for you: you're too good at what you do."
He strolled out of the barn and stopped outside, letting himself bask in the feeling of the sun on his face for a moment. He considered its touch cool for the height of the summer this region of the planet was displaying. He was comparing it to Iowa, though: not the arctic country where Chekov was born and raised.
His eyes swept slowly over the landscape around them. "You're sure that all of this: people, animal life, plant life–even the soil itself, has been transplanted from Earth?"
"Yes, Sir," Chekov repeated. "I have no doubt about it."
"Humans were moved here, so there had to be people living on Earth when all this was moved. How did Tiimeron manage that without it being noticed?" Kirk wondered aloud. "Without the humans who were present protesting, resisting, or at least recording it? The transplanted soil alone would have taken eons for it to be attributed to erosion."
The Navigator allowed his eyes to follow the Captain's gaze over their surroundings. "Perhaps it was noted, but we have never interpreted the notations correctly," he suggested. "We base our interpretations on known scientific and historical facts. Lake Baikal is the largest lake on Earth."
"And alien removal of the lake bed never came up in the question of how it formed," the Captain concluded.
"Not that I'm aware of, Sir."
Lines furrowed their way out from the Captain's hazel eyes. "Ensign, I've come to consider Tiimeron's fascination with Russia to be a dangerous personality trait. Why would anyone carry an obsession this far?"
"It reminds me of an old Russian proverb."
Kirk shot him a warning glance.
"Why doesn't that surprise me?" McCoy asked as he approached. "Which proverb?"
Kirk glared at his friend, but Chekov seemed not to notice.
"In Russia it is said 'Idiots don't play chess'."
"Well, that was enlightening." McCoy muttered.
"He means there's a method to the man's madness," Kirk clarified, shifting his jaw in thought. "I agree. This is more than a simple terrarium or zoo. What possible reason would Tiimeron have for duplicating a country that the decedents of his abducted population wouldn't even remember?"
"Jim," the Doctor interjected. "These aren't descendants."
The Captain glanced at McCoy, eyes widening in interest. "Not descendants, Bones?"
"At least not all of them," McCoy elaborated. "The data I've been able to gather does indicate that some of these people are descendants of original abductees. I can tell that by their age and their DNA, however, that a large number of these people are the original abductees: if that's what they are.
"Jim, I can measure their age in centuries, but they're all perfectly healthy. They show every sign of continuing that way indefinitely."
Kirk's eyes narrowed in thought. "Doctor, do you believe that this could have to do with the Earth-native plants, wildlife and soil that's here?"
"I couldn't say that without a great deal of further testing," McCoy replied with a gesture of futility.
"It has always been said that 'The serfs may belong to the Tsars, but the land belongs to the serfs'," Chekov interjected. "It's a statement of the understood, fundamental connection between the land and the peasant's soul. Peasant emigres still bring Russian soil with them, Captain."
"That may be more science than philosophy," McCoy elaborated. "It's possible that their DNA actually reacts to something in this soil." His steel blue eyes moved to the ship's Navigator and he shifted into a defiant stance before he continued. "The inhabitants of the Caucasus mountains have had a longevity that has always baffled the medical community. In the twentieth century, when life expectancy was in the eighties, the Georgians were living far beyond the middle of their second century."
"You believe that these abductees are from the country of Georgia?" Kirk asked.
"Again, I'd need more testing," the Doctor insisted to the Captain. "I do know for a fact that Chekov had a vitamin deficiency when we beamed down. I've been giving him supplemental shots. He's completely healthy now, however: and he's half Georgian."
The Captain blinked, his eyes widening. "Mr. Chekov, you're not Russian?" he asked melodramatically, stunned.
Chekov straightened indignantly. "Of course I am Russian. My country citizenship on Earth is the Russian Federation. My mother is a Great Russian."
Kirk fought off a wry grin. "As in not a good Russian or a bad Russian?"
"As in the main ethnic group in the actual country-state of Russia," the Navigator explained with put-upon patience. "Do you know how many country-states and ethnic groups make up the Russian Federation?"
"Before you start in on the extensive geography lesson," McCoy burst out irritably, "The point was that his father is Georgian. Ethnically, Chekov's half Georgia, half Great Russian."
"This wasn't a factor with the radiation sickness we had?"
"No. I checked it at the time," the Doctor insisted. "Repeatedly."
"My father's ethnic group was confidential information," the younger man muttered sullenly.
"Until it became significant to ship's business," McCoy retorted. "Keep complaining and I'll post it to every female on the ship-wide bulletin board."
"That's a threat?" the Captain asked curiously.
"I'll explain later," the Doctor muttered.
Kirk paced away slowly, his eyes examining the vegetation around him. "So we're all in the same environment, we all ate the same food, and Chekov's now healthy: but it's had no effect on either of us?"
"You've gained four pounds."
Kirk glanced back at the him sharply. "Overnight?"
McCoy glanced furtively at Chekov. "Good food," he muttered again to the Captain.
"Bones, what did the medical community on Earth discover regarding the longer lifespans of ethnic Georgians?"
"Nothing definitive," the Doctor informed him. "The studies were sporadic and the records verifying their actual lifespans were never considered reliable."
"Bones," Kirk drew out carefully. "I think we're in a biological laboratory. Tiimeron would need to recreate the environment on Earth exactly in order to pursue the type of medical testing that you're speaking about.
"Could he have found a human anti-aging factor?"
"I doubt it, seriously," McCoy drawled. "But he wouldn't be the first to try. I'll check."
The senior officer's conversation drifted past Chekov. He glanced away, back to the orchards, as he felt the blood slowly ease out of his face.
We all ate the same food... Not the apple, the Navigator realized. Not the apple.
He swallowed hard. Zharpesta had given Grand Duke Ivan an apple when they had first met. He hadn't wondered who had left the fruit on the window sill, just why.
Chekov had also never wondered how Zharpesta managed to make everything she touched more beautiful. It was obvious to him now: it made sense. Making a thing healthy was the most fundamental way to make it glorious.
"What about the Caulis Virus?" Chekov blurted into the older men's conversation.
McCoy shook his head somberly. "I'm sorry, son. There is no record of these people ever encountering anything like it and none of the medical community are familiar with it. It was the first thing I checked for, Chekov. I'm afraid they have no answer for Sulu here."
None that you know about, the Navigator thought with sudden fervor. These people don't look like they're from the Caucasus Mountains, this place doesn't look like Georgia, and these people aren't still alive because they have Georgian ancestry, Chekov's mind insisted.
The reason for their longevity lay somewhere else. And Pavel Chekov was sure he knew what it was. The rest of his report to the Captain would have to wait.