Kirk was relieved when he saw the figure in the dimly lit lounge. He wasn't surprised - the entire crew referred to this as "Chekov's lounge" - but his other options were the chapel and the swimming pool - so this obviously was the preferred spot for the Captain to find the missing off-duty navigator.

He paced into the room slowly. The outer hull to his right was a window that stretched the entire expanse of the room - floor to ceiling: the only observation window on the ship. It captured his eyes a moment. It was a completely different - and unique - experience from the computer projections the crew saw on the viewscreens. It was the way the stars would look if you were standing on the desk of a sailing ship.

The lounge before the window had both stadium seating - apparently provided for when there was something wonderful and unique to observe (which were never used) - and small dining tables and chairs scattered about.

Chekov was seated at one of the tables - which was unexpected. He would usually be found seated on the floor, where the window dropped below the floor and gave one the illusion of being on an EVA.

Kirk paused next to the table and waited. The man made no indication that he knew he wasn't alone any longer. "Mr. Chekov," Kirk finally said. Full seconds passed before the younger man drew his eyes over and up to his commanding officer.

The dark eyes were deep and somber and steady.

The fact that the junior officer didn't immediately stand and snap to attention when addressed by the Captain would have struck Kirk as insubordinate - if the Captain wasn't immediately overcome by the fact that he didn't know this man who looked at him.

Chekov brought a lightness and positive energy into every room he entered. His charm, his charisma - the dancing light in his shining eyes captured even the most surly person he encountered. There was none of that in the person or the eyes staring at the Captain.

Kirk glanced down at the papers strewn over the table.

Chekov's eyes followed his gaze, then moved back to the window again. "I was writing my father," he said absently. "He can't get my letters now, but he will eventually."

Kirk's brow furrowed as he stared at the papers. "In Arabic?"

There was no indication that Chekov had heard him - except on the hand resting on the table, his thumb was running slowly across the tips of his fingers as an outward sign of his thinking.

The movement finally stopped. "In Georgian. My father is Georgian," he answered finally. He drew his dark eyes to regard Kirk. "I'm Georgian."

Kirk suddenly understood the reasoning behind a myriad of inside jokes between Chekov and McCoy - who clearly knew this information.

"Not Russian," Kirk acknowledged - with a note of bitterness - the on-going lie the man had been perpetuating.

"Never said I was," Chekov replied flatly, and turned his eyes back to the stars.

"Chekov," he replied quickly, "Is a very Russian name."

"That's why I chose it."

Kirk let the information that "Chekov" was not his actual family name register and slip past him. What settled on his mind was the even tenor voice with round, almost musical tones - which had barely a trace of any accent. The so-familiar accent was apparently part of the affect that included the light and energy.

He didn't know this man.

"We've been ordered back to Earth."

He might as well have said nothing for all the reaction he got.

The Captain debated his physical position a moment. It was formal and he should be addressing Chekov standing: but the clear fact that the younger officer had no intention of doing so made the appearance of insubordination weigh heavily in the air. Something Chekov was clearly aware of - and didn't care about.

He didn't know this man.

Kirk pulled out the chair on his side of the table and lowered himself into it. He focused his eyes on the stars outside the window, as the other man was doing.

"Do they know you did this?"

Chekov finally turned his head to look fully at Kirk.

There was no long, wandering explanation or treatise - just the question acknowledging that Kirk had figured at least a part of the situation out. The Captain met his gaze. "Your father is neurodivergent. He can't interface with modern technology. He couldn't have done this."

The somber brown eyes held his steadily for a moment that stretched on into painful for the older man. Unlike the Chekov with expressive eyes he knew, Kirk couldn't tell what the other man was thinking: but he refused to blink.

"No," Chekov finally answered steadily. "They can't have figured out I did it. And the Russian government doesn't know he's not neurotypical: so they aren't even looking."

"But they still want you back there."

"Yes, Sir." Still no pretense, no long winded conversation.

Kirk knew it was Chekov that was being ordered back: the ship was just the vessel to get him there. The man made no acknowledgment of that fact they both knew.

Chekov turned back to look at the stars again. "30 years," he continued, as if he were talking to himself. "He's been running the Navy for 30 years and they haven't noticed." He stared in silence for a minute. "Took you two weeks."

"One," Kirk corrected. "Less. But... a week to figure out what IT was."

The younger man's chest moved once in what Kirk interpreted as a chuckle.

They went back to staring at the stars in silence.

Kirk eventually drummed his fingers on the table. "Your father can't use a computer. You're a computer expert. The only person that knows more about this ship's computers is Spock. The only person with greater access to this ship's computer is..."

"Commander Spock," Chekov acknowledged.

"That's an extreme amount of trust," Kirk bit out "And now I find out that with your access to the computers systems of the Russian government, you've been committing high treason.

"What," Kirk finished tightly, "Am I supposed to do, Ensign?"

The silence stretched on in the dim room. Chekov's eyes were on the stars: but Kirk could see his breath had become deliberate, measured. He finally spoke.

"I would never misuse my access to..."

"Purchase an amusement park with the accounts belonging to the Russian President," Kirk finished.

A quick call back to Russia had turned the Captain's nagging concern into a full blown alarm. The ease of getting the information he sought was mind-blowing. An anonymous low-level paper pusher had practically gushed the information out: everyone thought "Andriech's' escapades were adorable.

They were about to find out otherwise, Kirk thought.

The young man's breathing had stopped.

"Never use your access to steal the pay of every Russian politician," Kirk continued.

When the reply came, it was dark and toneless. "It was only a roller coaster," he corrected.. "And they didn't deserve to get paid that week."

The even, rounded tenor voice was beginning to grate on the Captain.

"Ensign," Kirk spat angrily. "You have complete access to this ship's computers with a proven track record of gross, methodical manipulation..."

"Or, maybe," Chekov spat back suddenly: showing emotion for the first time. "I was just a teenager going through hell that needed to be reminded I was just a kid occasionally."

The dark eyes that darted to Kirk were wild: dark - with rage filling their very depths. They didn't have the shine of Chekov's typical bursts of anger. They were the eyes of a madman.

Kirk straightened carefully. "Chekov, every teenager is going through hell. It's a defining stage of the Human condition. They don't..."

An explosive, guttural laugh burst out of Chekov unintentionally and he turned back to the stars, shaking his head. "I don't mean teenage angst," he growled deeply. "I mean actual hell. Not 'who am I going to take to the sock hop': but LITERAL hell."

The ludicrous reference to a sock hop might have been what Kirk needed to step back entirely. His mind brushed past the reference to take in - consider this man he didn't know and his wildly angry reaction - as well as Kirk's building emotion over the situation. He actually didn't care what this man had done in another world as a 14 year old. He didn't care what he'd done as a 12 year old. Kirk didn't even care what the man was doing now - in another world.

He shifted, straightening in the chair. "You're a computer...marvel," he decided to use, avoiding the anachronistic "genius". "Spock has you helping..." his voice trailed off, but the subtle wave of his fingers encompassed everything Chekov had been or was involved with. He tapped his fingers again before straightening.

"I don't care if you are using all of the tax money from Russia to buy a herd of dolphins and... send them to Romulus," he finished.

"I need your word," Kirk bit out tightly, "as an officer and a gentlemen: that you have never used the ship's computers to do anything that was outside the purview of your assigned duties."

Chekov sat silently, still staring. His thumb running across the tips of his fingers again was the only indication that he was considering what Kirk asked.

"I can't do that," he finally said.

Cold horror and flaming rage gripped Kirk's soul all at once. The rageful response inflated his chest - it was only at the last moment that reason stopped it. The Captain swallowed hard and forcefully got control of himself. He wasn't a hands-off commander: he routinely reviewed duty logs to see what was going on around him on his ship. So he full-well knew what Chekov routinely did at the Navigation station to keep himself from boredom.

"Give me your word," Kirk repeated. "Not including your plotting courses you haven't been assigned to places you'd rather be."

Chekov glanced over at him. "They're not always places I'd rather be."

Kirk shrugged. "I don't know - I would rather have been on Q'o'nos than dealing with Ambassador Cunningham. If I knew the course was already plotted, I might have told you to lay it in."

"Probably best you didn't know."

The Captain shrugged again in agreement.

The younger man waited until Kirk glanced back over at him and their eyes met. "I give you my word."

"Thank you."

They both went back to staring at the stars.

"Here's the dilemma," Kirk finally drawled. "If they find out, and it's clear I knew - and I did nothing to limit your access to the computers..."

"Not a good move for a commander," Chekov finished, his eyes still on the window.

"Will they find out?"

"No," he answered evenly. "There's no way for them to find out."

His voice stopped Kirk's reply. "I may tell them."

The Captain glanced at him again, but his eyes were still on the window. The older man realized what was at stake here.

"30 years. And not one person noticed?"

Chekov shrugged. "They thought it was a joke. A guy's social club. They didn't pay any attention to it. When it began getting accolades, they still didn't pay attention: they just took credit."

"Andrie has full autonomy...to do anything he wants," Kirk concluded.

The silence that met him was full of possibility. "For the most part," Chekov finally answered carefully.

The complete autonomy and the wild unnoticed fact that the Commander in Chief couldn't use a computer were supremely embarrassing tidbits that would come out if Chekov confessed. It would probably be the end of the navy. His father was facing a death sentence if he didn't. Anyone who'd ever seen the passion in Andrie's eyes for the sea and the navy understood that, either way, his life was over.

Chekov's foul mood for the last few weeks, and his sitting here alone - without any pretense of charm and charisma when speaking to his Captain - made perfect sense.

"What's your father doing with the funds?"

It was a shot in the dark, and Kirk wasn't surprised when he didn't get an answer.

"My father takes bribes," Chekov finally confessed evenly. "But only in Borzoi puppies."

Kirk hesitated: but knew that there'd be no explanation of the bizarre answer. It may have been a not-so-subtle nudge to go away: but Kirk couldn't leave him to his silent reverie - not yet. "Ch...Pavel," he corrected his formality. "Your...availability of massive amounts of funds..." Kirk straightened his shoulders. "You control the accounts of several people on this ship."

The navigator turned to look at him. "You're asking if I am stealing from my shipmates?"

Kirk met his gaze. "Yes."

For the first time, Chekov gave a slight smile and chuckled. "I don't have access to anyone's accounts. I just set up different ones to help them manage their funds better. Everyday slush, rainy day savings, long term savings...basic budgeting, Captain."

"Sulu has to ask you for permission to buy things," Kirk challenged.

Chekov sighed again, and turned back to the stars. "He thinks it's my money," he finally said. He glanced back at Kirk. "Sulu tends to be...impulsive...with his spending. There's an account where he thinks I'm sharing my money with him. So...out of consideration he discusses with me whether purchases are wise. It's not my money," he concluded. "But if it stops him from buying a 10,000 credit plant that only survives in the pit of a volcano..." he shrugged and looked back at the window. "It works."

"Who's money is it?"

Chekov gave the Captain an odd look. "His."

Kirk rubbed his knuckle across his chin. He wanted to leave it at that - but he couldn't. "I don't pry into my officer's personal business: but at this point, I'm left with no choice. Where do your funds come from?"

"Why am I 'rich'?" Chekov drawled in a less polite re-phrasing of the question. He picked at some invisible particle on his pants. "How old were you when you got your first job, Captain?"

"Thirteen. I grew up in farm country," Kirk elaborated. "We get an early start."

"Three."

Kirk's waxing on farm life was interrupted and his head snapped over to look at the other man. "What?"

"I was three when I went to work," Chekov repeated without turning his eyes from the stars. "Eight when I wrote my first book. Do you know what an eight year old has to spend a salary and profits from a book on?"

Kirk pressed his lips together. "I gather you didn't have a million credit comic book collection."

Chekov drew his eyes back to the Captain. "I spent most of my childhood in a 5x7 cabin on a sailing ship. If I HAD room for a comic book collection - it would have just gotten wet."

Kirk acknowledged the thought with a nod. He sat for a moment re-processing footage that had been playing on the news for the past few days. "Pavel Chekov" was this man. That light, charisma, and charm that he was known for - was an "on" setting he turned on. It was something he'd learned to do as a child when interacting with the different people they encountered while he traveled with his parents on their exploration of Earth's historical cultures. That Andrie recognized this early - and paid him for his work, made Kirk respect the man's father even more.

The younger man turned back to the stars once again. Sitting here - they pulled at him in a way he couldn't resist.

"That book on games kids play all over Earth - it's fascinating. Did you actually write it?"

The younger man's chuckle was audible this time. "Does my father strike you as a man who let's people take credit for work they didn't do?"

Kirk only smiled in response.

"It's embarrassing," Chekov continued with a note of bitterness. "Russian peasants aren't supposed to amass money. No matter what I try - I can't get rid of it."

All those years of work with literally no opportunity to spend the salary...Kirk could understand now why the man bought extravagant gifts and funded ship-wide parties. He stood up.

"Fortunately, you're not Russian," is what he said.

He saw the man's form still, and he pressed his lips together hard. "My mother's Russian," he admitted his earlier baiting of the Captain reluctantly.

"Ah. Bad luck for you then."

Chekov's voice stopped him as he moved to leave.

"200,000 years."

Kirk eyed him, but said nothing.

"200,000 years," he repeated. "Humans stared up at the stars, wishing, longing..." His gaze didn't move from the window in front of him."It's only been the last couple thousand we've been able to get here. To do this..."

Kirk considered the man a moment, then pivoted to look at the stars too.

"How fortunate we were to be born when we were."

The Captain nodded and looked back at the younger man. "That's why you come here: to look at the stars. Not computer projections, not computer images...the stars themselves."

Chekov nodded deeply.

Kirk stared at him another long moment. "I like this man."

He waited for Chekov to draw his somber brown eyes over to him. There was no pretense. They both knew this was a man Kirk had never encountered - not truly.

"I like this man," he repeated. "So I'm going to tell you something. The stars...aren't the only reason you come here." His eyes swept around the room pointedly. "You're alone."

Chekov's brow knit slightly as he made the same visual - ridiculously apparent - observation.

"Whether they don't get it, or out of deference to you - the crew leaves you this room when you want it. You're alone: in this room, on this ship - in this universe. Totally alone."

It was another thing that had nagged at Kirk's subconscious about the news footage of the man. Something he'd noticed, but hadn't put a name on it until he was sitting here, in this room, with the man. "You are never alone in..." he straightened and corrected himself. "On Earth. Never. You're never alone."

Kirk could have deduced a myriad of reasons, but it didn't matter. Whether it was Sulu in the last couple years, or one of the sailors in the years before - there was always someone beside, or a step behind - Chekov: his entire life. He knew he was providing it as a trump card for the young man to consider when he decided whether to confess and destroy his career - and the Captain was disappointed to see in his dark eyes that he had already known it.

"There's no Russian word for privacy." The accent crept back in on the edge of the quip.

Kirk held the man's gaze. "What about in Georgian?"