Chapter 4
The very first time he looked up into a clear night sky as a small child, he wasn't afraid. He saw depth and darkness, but there was also beauty and mystery. The sky was where he belonged and he knew this because of the stars. They spoke to his tender mind in maps and whispered riddles, hinting of untold wonder with every flicker. There was nothing he wanted more than to follow them and find out for himself what lay beyond. Though they seemed so distant, he would find a way to reach them.
He carried this fierce need to unravel the secrets of the constellations throughout his youth, devouring every bit of information he came across. He discovered their patterns, the way their weights, movements, and lifespans affected the bodies around them. He learned not only of their physical power, but the hypnotic sway their mysteries and promises held over the minds of creatures in every corner of the universe. They were studied, even worshiped by some, but to him, they were his guardians, his fiery beacons, his endless source of inspiration and excitement. He was convinced that as long as he could see them, he would never fail...
Something was wrong. It was too dark. No stars, no maps. All black. Nothing to guide him, nowhere to go. No matter where he looked, there was only an infinite void he knew he must escape before it swallowed him whole. This was his worst fear and it was closing in quickly on every side, shrinking around him like a vacuum. He struggled, pushing back with terror-fueled energy, but despite his efforts, he realized he couldn't climb out alone. He began to sink rapidly. Crushing despair filled in the remaining gaps, dragging him downward. He realized then that all was lost and no one could hear his pleas, so he stopped.
But instead of plunging into black silence as he'd expected, a calm, firm voice, touched him briefly, injecting into his nerves a particle of light.
"…ver here Bones, I think he's wak…"
I know this voice...
The particle grew and multiplied, spreading warmth and life through his being. Immediately heartened, he grasped for this faint glint of hope, clinging to it with everything he had and straining for more.
"About time. The kid's been out a whole day."
Another voice, another lifeline. He snatched it too and felt his fear ebb a little more as the two weaved themselves together into a strong lifeline.
"Chekov?" said the first one. "Can you hear me?"
"Jim, he took an electric shock to the head, for crying out loud. Give him a minute or two."
Jim…electric shock…Chekov…wait…"Chekov" is my name…
"C'mon, Pavel, you can beat this," the first voice encouraged. "We need you. The bridge just isn't the same without you at the helm."
Bridge? What is this guy talking…oh, that bridge! What's that line I say whenever I hear that voice on the bridge…? Something like...
"K…Keptin on…ze b-bridge…" The words were thick and sluggish, almost impossible to get out.
"That's it, that's it. How about name, rank and identification number? Can you give me those?"
His brain crawled into autopilot.
"Name, Chekov, Pavel…Andreievich. Rank…"
Chekov's eyelids slid apart and the swimming blur of light, shapes and colors gradually solidified into the hovering faces of friends he knew would never let him plummet back into the starless night. He was safe now.
The boy smiled weakly up at Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy.
"...Keptin?"
"Close enough." The captain smiled back. "How are you feeling?"
It was an obvious question, so Chekov gave the obvious answer.
"Everything…everything hurts, sir."
"Good." Dr. McCoy frowned at the readouts on the screen mounted beside the biobed. "Means you're alive."
"Word has it you picked a fight with a faulty electrical conduit," said Kirk.
Chekov swallowed, not sure if telling them what had actually happened would make things better or worse. Either way, it would be plenty embarrassing to admit he'd ended up here because he couldn't resist touching a piece of possibly-sentient metal.
"Yeah…" he mumbled. "S-something like zat."
"Nearly lost it, too," added the doctor bluntly. "We had some trouble convincing your heart to start again. For a while there, it was looking like we'd be picking up a new navigator at our next stop."
"They would've had some pretty big boots to fill." Captain Kirk grasped the young man's shoulder. "We're glad you decided to stick with us."
"So am I, sir…" Chekov began as the medbay doors swooshed open to admit several more individuals.
With a gasp, Uhura detached herself from Spock and ran toward the bed, eyes brightening with every step.
"Pasha!" she cried, taking Chekov's hand and squeezing it. "Pasha, you're awake! I knew you'd pull through."
Sulu and Spock stopped beside her, making Chekov feel a bit like a one-man freak show with them all gathered around him. At the same time, the wall of friends was comforting.
"Mister Chekov," said Spock, "we are all pleased to discover that you have survived and will undoubtedly make a full recovery. It is most fortunate."
It was the closest to a "glad you're ok, get well soon" as Spock was ever going to get, so Chekov took it for what it was.
"Thank you, Comman—"
"Oy, laddie!" came a burst of Scottish brogue from the entrance. The group parted as the Chief Engineer bore down on the teen, who cringed. "Yeh righ' near gave me the scare o'my life, wee man! What were yeh doin', messin' aboot with that much current?! Any more and yeh would've popped like a kernel o'corn!" He paused, surprising everyone with a sudden grin. "And yer a mite tougher than yeh let on."
"I helped, if that counts for anything," McCoy grumbled.
Uhura laughed, ruffling the ensign's hair. "Nice hairdo, by the way."
Confused, Chekov reached up and discovered that thanks to the shock, his curls had been blown into a mess of frizz.
"Ayy, wonderful," he sighed. "I feel like a sheep."
"Hm, kinda look like one, too," Sulu put in with a chuckle.
Spock quirked an eyebrow. "Ensign Chekov in no way resembles a sheep, nor does his hair. I do not understand..."
"It's a joke, Spock," Uhura muttered aside to him. "I'll explain later."
"Don't waste your breath," said Dr. McCoy. "Everyone knows it's not funny if you have to explain it. Just be glad it was your hair that exploded and not your brain, kid."
"Aye," agreed Scotty, "hair yeh can fix...most of the time. Brains? Not so much."
"C'mon, Pav," Sulu chimed in. "I think 'poof' might be a good look on you."
"Right?" Kirk clapped the pilot on the back. "Give it a day and it'll be a ship-wide rage."
"Oh, for the love of all that is still sane aboard this ship," muttered McCoy, grinding a knuckle into his forehead, "let's hope not."
Personally, Chekov sided with the doctor.
…
Eventually, the others were more or less kicked out of medbay, leaving Chekov at the mercy of the Chief Medical Officer. Knowing better than to even entertain the notion of asking when he could leave, Chekov submitted himself to a full examination and further testing to make sure all parts, physical and mental, were present and accounted for, and that no lasting damage had been done to either. When McCoy finally seemed satisfied with the results, the young officer was declared fit for discharge, but sentenced to a period of off-duty rest.
"I'd better not see you anywhere near the bridge for the next forty-eight hours, understood?" He offered Chekov a hand, hauling the boy upright as soon as it was accepted.
"Understood."
"Good. Now, if you start to feel anything abnormal—sick, dizzy, sudden increase in pain—come straight back and we'll look you over again. In the meantime," he aimed a scolding finger at him, "you see any exposed wiring, you keep your hands to yourself. Remember, you're a navigator, not an electrician."
Wise words, Chekov thought guiltily. If he'd simply left things alone in the first place, he might be having a normal day doing his normal job, not sitting half-roasted on a biobed.
"Yes, sir," he said.
That was that. In his typical terse fashion, Dr. McCoy ended the checkup by clearing the screen next to the bed and handing over the ensign's shirt. Feeling sore and dazed but overall just happy to be alive, Chekov pulled it on and headed out of medbay. The next stop, as per the doctor's request, would be his quarters.
Though he'd apparently been unconscious for over twelve hours and had initially balked at the idea of being cooped up with nothing to do for the next forty-eight, he craved a good, solid sleep. Maybe exhaustion was the human body's natural response to miraculously surviving near-death experiences? Or perhaps it was just an inward desire to escape on his own terms for a while? Whatever the case, he was ready for it.
With that in mind and not much else, he turned the next corner, expecting to meander down the corridor to the lift. Instead, he ran right into someone coming the opposite way.
"AAGH!" He immediately doubled over in pain, eyes scrunching shut as he spluttered a colorful Russian phrase through gritted teeth. It helped.
"Oh, my g—I'm so sorry, Chekov!" said a familiar voice. "I didn't see—I was just on my way to—"
Still cradling his middle, he opened first one watering eye, then the other to a slightly blurry image of a very concerned Briony.
"It's…it's okay," he lied, trying to save at least a fraction of his remaining dignity. "Doesn't hurt…wery much…"
"No, no, I should've been watching where I was going, but I was thinking and…here, let me help you." She pulled his arm over her shoulders. "Where were you headed?"
"Quarters," he grunted, wishing more than ever that he'd left that stupid sphere where it was.
"You really had me worried," Briony continued, voice tight. "What part of 'don't touch anything' didn't you understand? I mean, I was kind of joking, but seriously…? I leave you alone in the lab for one minute…"
"How was I supposed to know one of your artifacts would zap me?"
"Good point," she said after a pause. "When I said 'don't touch', I meant it as in 'don't get your fingerprints all over this stuff we're working on cleaning and preserving'. I swear, none of us knew there was anything in our inventory with lethal potential."
"Heh, now you do. You're welcome."
Chekov allowed his friend to walk him down the hallway. As much as he hated to admit it, he appreciated the assistance.
"There's proper protocol for those kinds of artifacts, of course, but the ones we have in the archives aren't supposed to be so…violent." She stopped to call the lift, guiding him inside when the doors opened. "In fact, they're not supposed to do anything...especially that sphere, come to think of it. As far as I know, that's been a cold case for months now—sort of got buried underneath everything else, I guess—so I wouldn't be surprised if you were the first person to touch it in as long."
They were silent a moment, the lift's mechanized hum providing a background for their thoughts.
"Really, though," Briony continued quietly. "I'm so glad you're alright. When Dr. Sylar and I found you on the floor not breathing, I was…I was terrified out of my mind. I panicked and didn't help very much at all. I don't handle surprises very well and if Dr. Sylar hadn't taken charge…" She drifted, eyebrows knitting together. "Are you always this preoccupied during conversations with other people?"
At the mention of 'help', a couple of the many dozens of gears inside Chekov's head clicked into place. The word flickered in his memory, provoking a flash of thought and a sharp gasp.
HELP
The notebook, the bold handwriting in black ink, the torn page...
It was Briony. She was the one who'd written the note. This happy, nerdy, chatterbox friend he was just getting to know was in trouble. How had he been so stupid not to have realized? She must have slipped the paper into his book at some point during their conversation two nights before, but why?
"Help," he said it aloud.
"That's what I'm trying to do..."
"No, 'help'. You wrote zat note!"
Briony's eyes grew round and the color drained from beneath her freckles. Without offering any kind of explanation, she let go of him and reached for a side button, bringing the lift to a halt.
"You wrote it, didn't you?" Chekov pressed again after a lengthy absence of sound or movement.
She nodded, swallowing.
"And put it inside my book?"
Another nod, this time while chewing a lip, abnormal behavior for someone as bright and open as Briony. That worried Chekov even more.
He took her by the shoulders and looked her squarely in the eyes.
"What's going on?"
Her gaze dropped to her feet.
"It's okay, you can tell me." He hoped he sounded at least somewhat encouraging and less like the confused-teenager-with-a-pounding-headache he actually was. "Whatever it is, I'll…I'll try to help."
She took a deep, preparatory breath before blinking up again.
"For my safety and yours, you can't breathe a word of what I'm about to tell you to anyone else aboard this ship. You just can't. This stays between you and me, okay?"
Slightly taken aback by the urgency of the request, Chekov faltered. "I...of course, but—"
"Promise me."
He hesitated. This had all the classic makings of a huge mess he wasn't sure he wanted to jump into. For all he knew, by agreeing to take part, he could be throwing himself into deep waters. Or worse, if it really was as bad as Briony made it sound, he could be throwing himself into his own grave. Despite the multiple red-alerts going off in his brain, he could see that she was already in too far over her head and in no position to get herself out. She needed the support of an ally.
"I…I promise." Though saying it out loud felt disturbingly like signing away his soul, he noted the immediate relief in Briony's expression.
"Thank you, Chekov," she breathed. "Thank you."
"Zat's...why I'm here. To help, no?" The cool, collected tone was a complete sham. What he really wanted to do was spin around, open the doors, hightail it out of the lift no matter what level they were on, and find somebody else to handle the issue.
But he couldn't. He just couldn't do that to her. Ensign Pavel Andreivich Chekov was an officer of Starfleet, and as such, was bound to his duty to serve and protect, even if it was a single person facing a difficult situation. Turning his back on this young woman, on his newfound friend, would go against everything the Federation—not to mention he—stood for.
"But I can't do anything until I know what's wrong," he said finally.
Nodding, Briony clasped her hands together. "I think...I think someone's stealing from the archives."
It wasn't the answer Chekov had been expecting, and in all honesty, it was something of a relief. A simple matter of theft could be easily solved and put aside, allowing the two of them to resume cultivating their budding relationship and life in general. All he had to do was go through the proper avenues, which, as a member of command, wouldn't be too difficult.
He reached for the small communications panel on the wall. "We should notify secur—"
"No!" Briony smacked his hand away. "I mean…I'm so sorry. It's a little more complicated than just calling security, because…because…"
"Because what?"
"Because I've been receiving anonymous threats. They're on to me…whoever 'they' are. They're trying to intimidate me and pin me down. It's working."
So much for 'easily solved'.
After a moment, Chekov again reached for the controls, this time making it obvious that he was only going to start the lift.
"If this is true, we can't stay here."
"Where can we go, then?"
"We can talk in my quarters, if zat is okay with you."
Briony hesitated, thinking it over before agreeing with a slight nod.
As they came to their level and the doors opened, Chekov took the lead into the empty officers' quarters corridor. All the way down, he couldn't help but inwardly kick himself for allowing himself to get his hopes up for an easy out. Who was he kidding? This was the Enterprise. From his first day on the bridge, he'd learned quickly that life aboard a Federation starship, especially this one, was rarely normal or calm. If it was, it could be taken as a sign that things were about to get interesting and most likely dangerous, although, he wasn't usually the one dealing with the Fiasco of the Day.
"Computer," he said as they entered his room, "actiwate lights."
The computer answered with a shrill beep. Command not understood. Please try again.
Chekov groaned. A sassy computer was the last thing he wanted on top of the headache he already had.
"Computer, acti-wvvate lights."
Command not under—
With a frustrated grunt, he swiveled to the manual control panel by the door and punched the button himself. Why did he even bother with voice-command anymore?
"Wow," said Briony as the room was illuminated.
"It heppens all ze time—"
"No, I meant…wow." She indicated the overstuffed bookshelves sagging against the far wall.
"Oh, er…yeah," he rubbed the back of his neck. "Eheh, I…might hef a little bit of an obsession."
"A little? Even I don't own that many printed books, and I'm an archaeologist."
Chekov would have been amused had he not been suddenly ambushed by a wave of dizziness. Having no intention of making another trip to sickbay that day, he held the palm of one hand to his temple before aiming a thumb over his shoulder at a couple chairs positioned beside the small table.
"We should sit down…"
She eyed him in concern. "Good idea. You're looking pretty wobbly."
He dropped into the nearest seat while Briony took the opposite. "Don't worry about it, I'll…I'll be fine. This is about you, anyway, not me. Go ahead."
"Yes, well…" she said after a brief pause, "Like I said, I have reason to believe someone's stealing from the archives and has been for a while. Probably a black-market racket based on what I saw before the threats started. I don't know what else it could be."
Black-market? That definitely brought the danger level up a notch or two.
"What did you see?"
She swallowed. "Something I shouldn't have, apparently. Last week, I was doing some routine catalog upkeep and I found this random inventory file I'd never seen before. Completely by accident."
"What was in it?"
"Mostly info I could've sworn had already been logged—duplicates—but when I looked closer, a lot of the numbers didn't line up with their counterparts. I did a side-by-side comparison of all the documents and I noticed that the ones from the new file seemed to indicate we were losing items at a steady rate."
"Ze only personnel with access to your system are members of your department; archaeologists, anthropologists, historians, and so on, right?"
"Right. And the weirdest thing," Briony continued, "was that none of the artifacts had been reported missing. I'd seen for myself many times, even earlier that day, that they were all accounted for. I went and pulled a crate of Kuiliar arrowheads to doublecheck…"
"Let me guess, they were all there?"
She nodded. "Every single one. Now, I'll be the first to admit I'm not the most experienced xeno-archaeologist, but it's kind of my job to be able to pick out artifacts—real artifacts—from their surroundings with careful examination. After another, more thorough look and running a quick analysis, I discovered that some of the arrowheads were fake, but the detail...the detail was impeccable. At a passing glance, anybody could've written them off as genuine."
"So, this smuggler would hef to be an expert, an insider, someone working wery close to you."
The young woman shuddered. "Creepy as it is, you're right. Whoever's making the copies knows their way around the originals. Only a trained expert familiar with the archives' inventory could recreate some of those relics so convincingly…"
"…and determine ze walue of ze real ones on ze black-market, no?" Chekov finished for her.
"Exactly."
"Okay, this is good!"
"Um…no," Briony said slowly, "not good. I thought we went over this…"
"No, no!" He waved his hands. "It is much better than I thought because now zat we hef significantly narrowed down ze possibilities, all we need is some ewidence and…"
"Yeah, about that," she shifted, tucking a strand of hair behind an ear, "when I came back to the computer after checking the arrowheads, the file was gone. Erased. Vanished without a trace."
"Ah," Chekov held up an index finger, grinning from ear to ear. "I wouldn't be so sure of zat."