Chapter 2

"…Pavel? Hellooo, earth to Ensign Chekov, come in Chekov…"

"Huh?" Chekov snapped back to reality as a hand waved in front of his face. When he focused, he found Uhura and Sulu staring at him quizzically from across the table.

Uhura put down her mug. "Are you feeling okay? You've been pretty quiet this morning."

"Who, me?"

"Yes, you, space-case. Who else?"

Chekov swallowed. Truthfully, ever since coming across the mysterious note the night before, he'd been somewhat preoccupied. He must have found dozens of little scraps tucked into books before now, but never one pleading for help.

Strangely, the discovery bothered him just enough to keep him awake longer than he'd wanted with questions he didn't know how to answer. The most obvious were of who had written the note and why, which opened the gates and allowed every manner of confusing and frustrating theory to follow. How could he help this person? Why put the note in a book, more specifically a book on the subject of Nvvorian archaeology? And why him?

In the end, he concluded that he must be overthinking an odd coincidence and jumping to conclusions about nothing. Who was he kidding? Hardly anyone used paper anymore which meant the message was probably at least a century old. And without a sliver of context, what was he supposed to do about it, anyway? What a stupid thing to lose sleep over. Just a random word on an insignificant piece of paper, another one of those anomalies he occasionally stumbled upon in his endless quest for new information.

And yet…

He simply couldn't deny the feeling that something about it was off. Maybe it wasn't that random and insignificant? And should he tell someone else? Ask for help?

"I'm…I'm fine," he muttered into his own mug before attempting to drown the matter in a gulp of hot coffee. Unfortunately, in his effort to maintain normalcy, the mouthful was slightly bigger than he'd anticipated and he ended up nearly drowning himself instead.

"Whoa, take it easy," Sulu said as Chekov choked and coughed. "I don't know how you do things in Russia, but I think you're supposed to drink that, not inhale it."

"Pasha, are you sure you're…"

Hastily wiping his mouth on the back of a hand, Chekov stood before Uhura could finish, eager to vacate the area and avoid further scrutiny from his friends.

"I'm fine," he gasped again, faking a smile. "I'm just—cough—fine. Well, hef to go. Ze Enterprise won't drive herself, no?"

The other two shared a bemused look. "What?"

Of all the things he could have said, he had to spit out the one that made him sound the most stupid.

"I mean…I hef to go…to the bridge." Chekov gave a stiff wave, then spun around and made a beeline for the entrance of the recreation hall. "I will talk to you later!"

"Okay, but…"

"I'm fine," he called one last time. "Really."

Was he?

…

To Chekov's relief, Uhura and Sulu weren't on duty today until after his shift. Otherwise he might have spent the hours worrying about them worrying about him and wondering if he was making a mountain out of a molehill. Thankfully, as they usually tended to do, the precise and demanding requirements of his job took control of all brain function, clearing everything except coordinates and calculations aside, and before he knew it, he was free and on his way to the observation deck.

The ensign was lucky his feet knew where to take him since his head was lightyears away, wrapped up in the anticipation of talking to Briony again and her promised tour of the ship's archives. He miraculously arrived at their designated meeting place without any problems and spotted her on the same bench they had shared the night before, scribbling rapidly in a battered notebook with a pen.

Most in this century might be baffled by her choice of note-taking materials since tablets, holographic projections and voice-to-text commands had long been the norm, but this seemed so typical of a person who wore antique glasses for fun. It seemed so…so Briony, and he'd known her less than a day.

Chekov came to a quiet stop beside her and cleared his throat.

"Hello…"

The young woman started, snapping the notebook shut with the pen between the pages and turning to face him. Her off-guard expression dissolved immediately into delight.

"Oh, there you are, Just Pavel!"

"Yes, here I am." Chekov shrugged. "'Just Pavel'. I…I can't help but notice ze notebook you are writing in. Mind if I sit down?"

"Oohhh, I see what you did there." She grinned, waggling a finger at him as she sidled over. "You're clever. Is everybody on the bridge as clever as you?"

"Yes," Chekov laughed a little as he took a seat beside her. "Yes, wery much so. Much more than me, actually."

Briony threw him a narrow-eyed glance of mock suspicion. "Somehow, I find that hard to believe. You seem like one of those unassuming types who can fly in under the scanners and get away with whatever you want. Or come out of nowhere and totally destroy everything in your path. Kapow!"

Was that supposed to be a compliment, or…

"And there I go again," she said after a pause, deflating at his confusion. "Sorry…"

"For what?"

"For getting away from myself again." She shook her hands by the sides of her head. "Stuff just…falls out of my brain sometimes."

Chekov smiled, momentarily distracted by a bizarre yet amusing image of streams of tiny letters, numbers, and objects spilling out of his friend's ears.

"It's a lot worse when I'm tired. I…didn't actually sleep very well last night."

"Hm. Neither did I."

"Perfect. Feeling under the weather is always more fun with someone to commiserate with, don't you think?

"Under ze…"

"It means you don't feel too great."

"Oh. I think I might hef known zat."

"Anyway, how about we head down to the dungeon?"

"Ze…dungeon?"

"Aagh," she grunted, scrunching her face and tucking a strand of hair behind an ear. "Archives. I meant the archives. Sorry, it's kind of an inside archaeologist joke…"

"Briony, are you all right? You seem sort of..."

"Distracted? Off-kilter?"

Those weren't quite the words he would have chosen, (especially the second, because what in the world was a "kilter"?) but they were close enough.

"Yes," he replied. "Yes, you seem…off your kilter."

"Sorry, sorry, I'm just… Never mind. It probably wouldn't make sense anyway, as usual."

"You know, maybe…maybe you should not apologize so much for ze things you say. Being yourself and saying what you mean is nothing to be sorry about. Even when you're feeling under ze weathers."

Blinking, the young woman studied him, eyes shining with a hint of hesitant curiosity.

"You know, you're awfully mature for someone your age. Are you sure you're an eighteen-year-old ensign and not some highly advanced being in disguise sent to impart wisdom to us lesser creatures?"

Chekov looked down at his hands, turning them over as if searching for physical evidence of higher being-ness.

"Not zat I know of. And I could ask ze same question to you."

"Nah, no need to ask." She waved him off. "I already know I'm not eighteen."

"Oh, good. I was wondering."

She laughed. "Come on, JP, let's go."

Before he could question the newest incarnation of his name, she seized his wrist and pulled him upright, towing him across the room and through the doorway.

"You're gonna love this," she babbled in sudden, unabashed excitement. "I mean, I might be a little biased, but the archives really are the most interesting place on this ship, in my opinion. Where else do you get to study dead people all day?"

"Uh…sickbay?"

"What? Ew! Well, true, I guess, but I meant people that have been dead for, like, five hundred plus years. Anyway, you would not believe some of the pieces we have in there. It's like stepping into a mini alien museum. And wait till you see our database. It is beyond wicked, I'm not even kidding!"

"Wicked?"

"Oh, right, it usually means 'evil, but it can also be slang for 'amazing', or 'seriously awesome'."

"Ayyy…" he groaned.

Was he ever going to get his head around all the extras that tagged along with Standard? Sure, technical jargon and Starfleet talk weren't a problem, but just when he thought he'd figured out how to hold a casual conversation, he was knocked back a rung or two by a new word or phrase. And why did so many of said words or phrases have to sound the same but have completely different meanings? It didn't seem fair.

"Don't ask me why it works that way," Briony said, as if reading his mind, "because I have absolutely no idea. I'm not a linguist."

"Don't worry, I won't." This was more of an issue to bring up with Uhura, anyway, but the language lesson would have to wait a while.

Briony's enthusiasm was contagious, and though he wasn't a fan of being tugged across half the ship by someone he'd only met yesterday, he couldn't muster the heart to tell her that he was perfectly capable of walking (more like jogging, in this case) by himself. She was obviously thrilled at the opportunity to get to know a shipmate with common interests and perspectives and Chekov couldn't blame her. After all, he felt the same way.

Several levels later and around one last corner, Briony brought him to an abrupt halt before a pair of sliding glass doors. Finally dropping his arm, she beamed.

"Okay, are you ready?"

Was she kidding? Chekov was born ready.

"Yes," was all he said.

Briony trotted to the touchpad next to the entrance and gave it a tap.

"And now, may I present to you, Ensign Chekov…the archives."

The doors hissed apart as she stepped aside, waving her arms like a gameshow hostess presenting the grand prize.

And what a prize it was.

Essentially an extension of the curved, tubular hallways of the rest of the ship, the walls were checkered with blue-tinted compartments and went branching off in several directions like a web. At the center of these connecting corridors was a computer console where a couple other science officers studied and discussed the holographic image of an artifact rotating slowly above it.

Wide-eyed, Chekov stood frozen in place, overwhelmed by a swell of academic ecstasy. Why in the galaxy had he never come here until now? This place gave the observation deck a run for its money, and that was saying something.

Briony was suddenly beside him. "Pretty amazing, right?"

"No...no, it's not."

"It's not?" She sounded almost insulted.

"No, it's unbelievable."

"Oooh, nice save. For a second there I was afraid I was going to have to kick you out and ban you from ever coming back."

He gulped. "Wh-what?"

"Kidding, kidding." She took his shoulders, steering him toward an adjoining corridor. "Right this way, Thesaurus-For-Brains. There's somebody I want you to meet. I think you'll get along really well."

The busy science officers hardly flinched as the two passed by and hung a left. This hallway ended with a door that looked highly official and secure, as if it kept some priceless treasure or classified secret behind it. And in reality, Chekov supposed, it just might.

Briony entered a code into the keypad at its side. With a beep, the door slid open.

"Welcome to the lab. Step right in and make yourself at home."

The room was long and spacious with counters and workstations filling the length, all of which were buried under piles of brushes and tools, shards of pottery, pieces of bone, a rather horrifying alien skull with four hollow eye sockets and sharp fangs, and so on. Rows of shelves and cabinets lined the walls, likely housing who knew how much more archaeological paraphernalia.

It was chaotic, intriguing, disorganized, exhilarating…

It was heaven.

"Aha, there you are, my dear." The voice belonged to one of two lab coat-clad men standing at the farthest workstation. "We were wondering where you'd gotten off to."

The speaker was the older of the pair with greying hair and features suggesting a few too many brushes with native species over a long career of fieldwork. The man radiated a friendly but firm air which was amplified by his strong, thick build. He was the perfect blend of father-figure and retired hitman, someone who could dish out the wisdom while easily taking control of any situation.

The other one was tall and lean with shiny black hair, a pointy face, and, by the looks of it, a pointy attitude to match. Everything about him seemed to scream "holier than thou".

"Hello, Dr. Sylar," Briony replied brightly, tossing her notebook onto a countertop. Then after a half-hearted nod, "Hey, Schvaneveldt."

Schvaneveldt? Well, that sounded like all sorts of fun to pronounce. Just the thought made Chekov's tongue curl.

"Who's the new guy?" Schvaneveldt asked.

"Dr. Sylar, Swannie—"

"Don't call me that—"

"—allow me to introduce you to Ensign Pavel Chekov." She leaned toward them, pretending to hide a loud whisper behind a hand. "He's from the bridge."

Then, as if offering him for inspection, Briony nudged him forward. Momentarily lost for words after an internal attempt to sort the "v" sounds from the "w" sounds in the tall man's name, Chekov plastered on a smile, hoping it didn't appear too forced. The doctor seemed to buy it. Schvaneveldt, on the other hand, remained unimpressed.

"Oh, now I know who he is," he sniffed as if Chekov weren't even in the room, "and where he works. It's not very often one of the hotshots from command descends from on high to pay us lowly worker bees a visit. What brings you all the way down here, Wonder-Whiz, or whatever they call you?"

And there's another one for the list, Chekov thought. Though the variations of the label grew ever more tiring, Chekov had to admit people were getting creative. There were only so many synonyms for "prodigy" and phrases to substitute for "that Russian kid". At least the redundancy issues meant it would eventually die out.

"It's Pavel," he replied.

"Just Pavel," added Briony. "And I brought him down here."

"Oh, goody." Schvaneveldt smirked maliciously. "'Pavel', huh? So, if I ring a bell, does that mean you'll come running from the other room expecting lunch?"

"Swannie!"

"You must be thinking of 'Pavlov', not 'Pavel'," Chekov replied. "And I'm sorry, but I am not a dog, if zat's what you are implying. Pavlov was ze physiologist who discovered and researched ze psychological concept of 'classical conditioning'. He conducted experiments introducing ze ringing of a bell as a neutral stimulus whenever ze dogs were given food in order to study their responses. He wasn't ze subject of ze experiments himself. We are both Russian, though, so good guess."

"Ohohooo, ouch," Briony said under her breath in the stunned pause that followed.

"Huh," snorted the taller man, "aren't you just the perfect little Russian know-it-all—"

"I could report you for that," Briony snapped. "You know I could."

"Of course you could…but you won't. We all know you don't even have the guts to report somebody for loitering—"

"That's enough, you two," Dr. Sylar intervened before the argument could heat up.

Scowling, Schvaneveldt mumbled something inaudible but undoubtedly offensive and went back to his work.

"Don't listen to him," said Dr. Sylar, wisely guiding them away from the topic of names. "So, we finally get to meet one of the captain's finest. How exciting!"

"Er, well, no, not really the finest, I'm just a navi—" Chekov stopped short, fully comprehending the manner in which Dr. Sylar had addressed him. A wide grin spread across the ensign's face. "You speak Russian!"

Dr. Sylar returned the boy's smile with one of his own, sidestepping the work station to grip his hand.

"That I do, Ensign. That I do."

"No idea what you're saying right now," Briony whispered, giving Chekov another nudge, "but I knew you two would hit it off."

Any chance to speak in his native tongue felt akin to downing a cold glass of water after an uphill run on a blistering summer day. Once he got going, it was difficult to stop, however, Sylar didn't seem bothered and let Chekov chatter away about his newfound archaeological interests, listening patiently to his ideas and theories and answering questions as they arose.

"Um, not to be that person," Briony cut in hesitantly after a while, raising an index finger, "but some of us aren't as gifted in the language department."

Schvaneveldt contributed a snort, otherwise remaining tenaciously focused on the cracked and dusty clay bowl he was brushing.

"Yes, yes, sorry, my dear." Sylar tapped Briony's shoulder, then turned back to Chekov. "We'll have to continue our conversation in Russian at another time. Although, I must say your Standard is quite remarkable."

Chekov beamed. "Thank you. I'm still learning, but I hef worked wery hard to…"

Schvaneveldt choked on an actual laugh this time.

Stupid w's and v's…

"Shut up, Swannie," snapped Briony.

"I told you not to call me that!"

"Didn't you have some important numbers from that dig on Gorvis-XI you needed to run through the computer?" Dr. Sylar asked his tall colleague as Briony crossed her arms and glared for emphasis.

Without much more than an annoyed huff, Schvaneveldt excused himself and made for the entrance.

"I apologize," Sylar continued once he was gone, "Schvaneveldt isn't the most…charming person to work with."

"I noticed," Chekov said.

"In any case, let's move on, shall we?"

"Yes, please," muttered Briony.

"How old are you, Ensign, if I may ask? Purely out of curiosity, that is."

Feeling his face flush a bit, Chekov cleared his throat and shuffled.

"Um, eight…eighteen. I turned eighteen a few days ago."

Sylar seemed both surprised and impressed. "Oh, you are quite young, then, aren't you? How interesting. Well, I certainly look forward to learning more about you in the future, Mister Chekov."

"Speaking of age," Briony said, taking the teen by the elbow like she was preparing for a stroll through the park, "why don't I show you around before we get any older?"