'Clearing' was a kind description of the spot the ship's Science Officer had located. The planetoid was little more than dirt and rocks; where they materialized the dirt just happened to spread further between the rocks than it did in other locations. Kirk, in fact, wondered how the space object managed to hang onto a breathable atmosphere.
"Doctor," Spock intoned, calling McCoy's attention to a rock outcropping to their left. "Your team should be beaming down to the camp which you can reach through those rocks. Captain, with your permission, I will explore to the east."
"Best speed, Spock."
"I will assist…"
"No," Kirk spat out instantly, stopping Chekov in his tracks. "You know these people. I want you stationed at this central location to act as the ship's liaison if need be."
"Yes, Sir," the man replied formally. His stiffened jaw and averted eyes clearly betrayed his feelings about the order, however.
"You'll excuse me if I go see to my medical staff." McCoy's subdued tone was an acknowledgment of the tension that was obvious between the two command officers he left behind.
The normally chatty Lieutenant uttered not a sound as he waited alone to the side of the clearing. He didn't even move: just stood ramrod straight as Kirk slowly paced a few steps this way and that to keep his thoughts from settling unpleasantly. He had never seen Chekov in this kind of mood. Although the Security Chief was not nearly so impulsive as he had once been, Kirk was used to Chekov's quick bursts of temper that flared up instantly and then burned out as quickly. A fire's true danger was beyond the flames, however: in the intensity of the raging coals that a well fueled burn left behind. That's what the Captain now sensed in the outwardly emotionless man he stood with and he was unnerved by the feeling that Chekov was a far more dangerous man than he'd ever expected.
Kirk hesitated as he saw Spock's form reappear amidst the rocks. The Science Officer said nothing, but Kirk still understood the information he imparted. The Captain moved carefully over to where Chekov stood as the Vulcan returned to tend to the bodies. "Pavel," he said gently then, fortified by Spock's silent information. "I'm sure she's alright."
He received no response except for the tightening of the man's already rock-hard jaw and silence fell between then again. It was the first time they'd been alone since the Captain had told him of the crash. Kirk hadn't felt the same about his Security Chief since. On a moment-to-moment basis he was fighting an all-too human wash of anger, betrayal and outrage that threatened to consume any temperate thought within him. He didn't understand which aspect of the situation–the marriage, the man's behavior, his deception–went with each emotion at any given point in time, but he couldn't bring himself to feel any sympathy for the person he'd thought of as a friend.
"Are the two of you close?" he attempted with tight politeness.
"She's a pain up my ass," Chekov snarled in reply, his dark eyes still frozen in the distance.
Kirk smiled slightly. "You mean 'a pain in the ass'."
"If you say so, Sir," he replied stiffly.
"Pavel!"
Both men glanced quickly toward the voice. At the rock outcropping that had earlier swallowed the Doctor stood a young woman, her dirt-smudged face still reflecting an inner glow from the joyous smile that energized her entire being. "Malyenki!"
She flew across the clearing, her slender body gracefully soaring into the air and nearly over Chekov's head. He thrust his arms upward and caught her before she did.
"Tiana!" With an uproarious laugh of delight and relief, he held her up there: grinning wildly at her.
Kirk watched the two, eyes mesmerized by the woman in Chekov's hands. Her close-fitting, charcoal-gray coveralls, soft boots and tangled ponytail were imbedded with the planet's red soil. Yet even the simplist of her movement were inued with such utter grace and natural refinement that anyone who saw her would have known immediately that she was of royal breeding. A princess. A fairy princess, the Captain allowed himself to fantasize. For she had taken flight before his eyes, slipping into the air and rising above mere soil to alight into the Security Chief's arms.
No, Kirk recriminated himself, reigning his fantasies in. She had not really flown in front of him. She was a professional ballet dancer and what he'd just seen was a simple lift. Although Chekov had only taken a few years of ballet as a very young child, he had obviously learned how to partner the move along the way.
Chekov lowered her now, letting her slide down until his lips could catch hold of hers in desperate relief.
"Chot!"
Startled, Kirk glanced over and found a middle-aged man standing near the rock outcropping. In coveralls that matched the woman's, the man stood frozen: his wide gray eyes riveted on the Security Chief and his wife.
The Captain strode over to him and offered his hand. "Privyet," he said hello in Russian. "I'm Captain James T. Kirk of the starship Enterprise.
"Hello?" he ventured again when he received no reply.
The man started, glancing at Kirk. He seemed surprised that he wasn't alone. Smiling with some measure of embarassment, he took the Captain's hand. "I'm sorry, Captain: Anatolya Ivanovich, current Director of the Mariinsky Theatre."
He glanced distractedly at Chekov again before continuing, brushing tangled, wiry brown hair off his forehead. "I must say that we're privileged to be rescued by the finest ship in the galaxy. Your reputation far precedes you."
"We're just doing our job," Kirk smiled easily. His eyes curiously followed the Director's gaze as he glanced furtively, yet again, at the Security Chief.
Chekov's mouth held fast to the woman's, hungrily losing himself completely in the unexpected, delicious taste of her soft lips. I could do this forever, he thought. I want to do this forever...
He let his mouth open slightly and tenuously caressed her lips with his tongue. An explosion of heat roared, consuming all reality within him and deafening him. He jerked his mouth away in sudden alarm but held her up at eye level still, entranced by her face and tumbling into the well of her eyes. He was startled by the torrent of raw emotions that crashed up from somewhere deep inside him. Startled, stunned and exhilarated.
"You've lost weight," he said breathlessly to avoid the subject: as though she wouldn't know what he was thinking anyway. Chekov's smouldering brown eyes stared at her as if he'd never seen this woman before: saw features for the first time that he'd thought were already wll-memorized.
Despite the dirt and bruises, he drank in the river of her thick, shining hair, the color of new clover honey; possessed the image of her perfect, delicate features and petal-soft skin; and reeled in the completeness he felt as her crystalline blue eyes met his. Chekov flushed: feeling horribly, embarrassingly exposed. He forced himself to set her down on her own feet, but left his hands resting on her arms. "You've lost at least two pounds."
Wide eyes stared up at him through long, curved lashes; but something primal in them went unvoiced. She scowled at him instead. "I was just in a space crash, Pavel Andrieivich. I like these new uniforms," she commented, shifting the subject swiftly. Her delicate hands smoothed over his burgundy uniform jacket and sent another rush of warmth exploding through his chest. "These have a much more military bearing. Those grey things were horrible."
"I'll be sure to let the Fleet know you approve," Chekov assured her with a wry smirk, still reluctant to let go of her arms. "You can't afford to lose two pounds," he insisted thickly then, returning adroitly to the subject she'd tried to avoid. "What's Anatolya doing about this? Is he even aware of it?
"Anatolya." Chekov beckoned the man standing with Kirk, a dark timbre in its tone. Showing no respect for military decorum, the Ballet's Director instantly excused himself from the Captain and hastened over to where the Security Chief had paused after moving away from the woman.
The Captain watched them only momentarily before letting his shift to the woman who stood, deserted--as in life, he thought ruefully--by Chekov. He strolled over to her and smiled charmingly. "Tiana, I can't begin to express what a pleasure it is to finally meet you." He couldn't bring himself to call her Mrs. Chekov.
Several inches shorter than Chekov and barely one hundred pounds, Kirk could see she was a true Russian beauty even through the crashes effect on her appearance. The young woman tilted her head and cast up sparkling eyes to touch his hazel ones with a devilish glint. The delicate curve of her lips shifted imperceptibly. "I'm sure the wait was intermimible, Captain." The color of her eyes would have rivaled even the finest sapphire.
Kirk pressed his lips together, but then grinned. It was clear from her toying look that she knew full well he hadn't known about her. "Yes," he insisted broadly. "The last two days have been torture."
A brilliant smile swept over her face, lighting up her entire countenance. "From what I know of Pavel Andrievich, I imagine they were."
Kirk's grin only deepened. Beautiful and quick-witted, the Captain decided he understood why Chekov had married her.
"Captain…"
"Jim."
She smiled gently. "Jim," she acknowledged. "My name isn't Tiana."
"I'm sorry," he instantly apologized. "I thought I heard Mr. Chekov call you that."
"Oh, you did," she answered amiably. "Pavel calls me that to annoy me: he always has. It isn't even remotely Russian. I've always ignored it to irritate him back." Her smile sparkled in the depths of her eyes. "We both seem to have a bit of a stubborn streak."
"Really?" Kirk asked broadly, hazel eyes sparkling wickedly. "Now, I hadn't noticed that about Mr. Chekov." The name clearly had become an endearment between the two.
She laughed, a merry sound like musical notes skipping away on the air. "Jim, both Tanya and Tatenka are nicknames for Tatiana."
"Tatiana is too beautiful a name to shorten." He smiled charmingly, took her delicate hand and lifted it to his lips: touching it with a kiss.
With utmost poise, her long, graceful neck drew up and her shoulders eased back in the most enchanting recognition of his gesture that he could have hoped for. Kirk released the woman's hand, but then hesitated as his attention was caught by the strident note he heard in his Security Chief's distant voice. He glanced across the clearing to where the younger man stood with the Ballet's Director. What drew his attention was the volume of Chekov's voice. It was not raised: in fact, it was lowered to a thunderously quiet level.
"Do you think this is some kind of joke?" the Security Chief was demanding, his tone flat and accent faded. "What are you doing dragging the Motherland's finest dancers into outerspace anyway? Space travel isn't safe! You risked our cultural treasures for the sake of your own personal ego."
"We're on a cultural exchange tour," the Director replied hurriedly with a strange note of panic in his voice. "It was arranged by the Ministry of Culture. You knew about it!"
"You should never have been traveling in outer space."
"What were we supposed to do, let them all come to us?"
"Yes!" Chekov retorted, his voice strident again. "If they wish to see the magnificent culture the Motherland has to offer, they can come to Russia!"
The Captain forced back a smile with difficulty, catching Tatiana's expression as she rolled her eyes outlandishly. Chekov was being ridiculous. Kirk moved to address the issue, but felt the gentle brush of her fingertips on the back of his arm. He was charmed by the wink she didn't give him but he clearly saw.
She turned to her husband without sign of having overheard the conversation he was having with the Director. "Lt. Chekov."
He glanced at her sharply. The Security Chief squared his shoulders, a shadow of embarrassment glancing over his features so quickly that it was almost as invisible as the wink. There wasn't any recrimination in her tone: she didn't need it. Chekov knew expected appropriate behavior for a Starfleet Officer.
"Captain Kirk needs your advice."
The man's face turned sullen; something the Captain recognized even from where he stood. It was hidden by the time the man approached them.
"Yes, Sir?"
"We were discussing the company's need for practice space," she explained before Kirk could say anything. "Since you are the only one familiar with both the company's needs and the ship's composition and operation, the Captain was seeking your recommendation."
Eyeing her with charmed interest, Kirk clasped his hands behind his back sedately. As a Starship captain, he rarely allowed himself to be manipulated into such a position. He was instantly entranced at how diplomacy was such a nimble plaything in her delicate fingers. If first impressions were an important thing, than she had made an indelible one already, considered the Captain. Such a diminutive thing, she still exuded a presence of elegant, impermibile grace that no sane person would contend with. Hell, he thought. I don't think Chekov ever had a chance.
"We'll need a barre. The mirrors are luxuries," the Director was saying as he joined them. "But we can't practice without a barre."
"Practice!" McCoy demanded from the side of the clearing, his steel blue eyes wild with outrage. "Are you insane? Jim, you can't be seriously considering their request," he roared as he quickly strode over to the group. "These people need rest and time to heal. I'd recommend a month at least!"
"They're ballet dancers," Chekov replied levelly. "Not circus performers."
The Doctor threw a hand up in his face. "I don't care if they're Starfleet Special Ops Forces, Chekov! They've just crash landed!"
"Doctor McCoy," the Security Chief snarled under his breath. "A five minute ballet is more physically taxing than six rounds of boxing. Even one day without practice requires weeks to get a dancer's body back into proper condition to perform. Practice is not an option. It's a requirement. There's no telling how much of a setback the crash has already been."
"Jim," McCoy insisted angrily again. "It's against my medical advice to even consider letting any of these people work out. I won't allow it on my ship."
Chekov's jaw tightened and he stiffened his shoulders in response. "Doctor, you and your medical staff aren't qualified to make such a decision. The Company's Doctor will determine if there are any dancers who require medical leave."
"Mister Chekov," the Doctor rasped back. "As a Starfleet Officer, you are well aware the medical condition of everyone aboard the Enterprise is my jurisdiction and my determination overrules even the Captain's authority."
"The Company Doctor knows..."
"Dr. Grigorivich is dead."
Chekov turned slowly to fix the Director with cold, dark eyes. "What?"
The man swallowed hard and shifted before he answered. "I'm afraid the Company Doctor died in the crash, Pavel."
Silently, the Security Chief's brown eyes held the older man frozen a long moment. "How could you allow such a thing to happen?" he asked tonelessly.
The man reacted violently then, throwing his hands into the air. "I'm not God!" he burst out in exasperation. "Pavel, how can I possibly be held responsible for who died in the crash!"
Chekov glared at him, eyes growing even darker. "Do you want to keep your job?" His words were almost too quiet to hear.
"Gentlemen," Kirk cut in sharply. "Obviously, our guests do have special needs which should be addressed. Mr. Chekov, until further notice you are to consider your only duty to be a liaison to them."
"Sir, I am fully able to attend to my other duties as well as..."
"You have your orders, Lieutenant," the Captain continued abruptly, glancing at him sharply. "I expect you to carry them out utilizing your full understanding of the ship's normal operations." Including, thought Kirk fiercely, how McCoy has to operate his sickbay.
"Understood, Sir," Chekov replied, subdued.
"Good. Now, see to the planet-side medical staff," he instructed.
"Yes, Sir."
Strangely, what struck the Captain as he watched Chekov leave was how attractive the younger man was. Any children he had with Tatiana would be stunning, and no doubt brilliant. He didn't understand how, after marrying this enchanting and beautiful young woman, the Security Chief could have left alone her back their home world. He felt somewhat self-satisfied that his orders would force the man to spend time with his wife.
The orders also meant Kirk would not be spending as much time in close proximity to the man as would be usual. He would have more space: more time to find a way to completely readjust his image of a man he'd thought was his friend.
"You'll have to give him a bit of levity," the Captain explained to the Ballet's Director apologetically when Chekov was out of earshot. "Understandably, he's also had a lot to deal with himself lately."
"He's tense," McCoy commented lightly. "Don't worry about it: it's not like he can really threaten your job, after all."
The Director scowled, looking at the Doctor strangely. "Who do you think got the last Director fired?"
The Enterprise officers exchanged a surprised look as Tatiana nodded sublimely.
"Had him sent to a penal colony, too," she added.
"Gentlemen," the Director insisted fiercely. "I don't know anything about the situation with this 'Lieutenant Chekov' on your ship, but I can assure you of one thing:
"In Russia, Pavel Andrieivich is not a man to cross."