Chapter 7
Though Chekov spent most of it cursing himself for acting like such an idiot, the rest of his trip was free of incident and the sight of the archive's glass doors at the end of it raised his spirits a little. He slipped inside on the heels of a science officer, intending to continue straight to the archaeology lab, but before he could pass, she stopped suddenly.
"Sorry…" he muttered after bumping into her. When she didn't answer, he peered around her shoulder, wondering what had brought her—and everyone else in the room—to a halt.
"I'm telling you," snapped another science officer beside the computer console, "you've completely messed this thing up!"
To the man's right was none other than Tall-Dark-and-Snotty.
"So, you're saying I'm wrong?" Schvaneveldt fired back.
"Yes! That's exactly what I'm—look at this!" The other man gestured to the splattering of numbers and symbols on the clear glass-pane monitor. "I mean…just…how? Were you trained in a twentieth-century barn? I had no idea anybody could screw up a catalog file like this."
"Oh, relax, Stevenson," Schvaneveldt groaned rolling his eyes. "It'll work itself out eventually."
Fuming, the colleague tapped the screen a little too emphatically, prompting a complaining beep and several flashing messages from the machine.
"No, I won't relax and no, it won't 'work itself out eventually'. I don't know what you did, but you've frozen the system and locked everyone out of it! For all I know, you could have deleted the entire database!"
Chekov sidestepped the woman as quietly as he could, pulling his jacket hood closer and slouching forward as he walked, hoping to sneak by without notice.
"Oh, goody, look who it is," Schvaneveldt sneered, leaning against the console. "Our resident underage archaeology enthusiast, back for more."
The boy immediately froze in his tracks.
"Y-yes, hello," he muttered, raising his head.
"No gold shirt today, huh? Let me guess, they kicked you off the bridge for staying up past your bedtime?"
"No, actually, I'm off-duty because I am recovering from an accidental electrical shock." He let Schvaneveldt stew in that not-so-subtle shot of guilt.
"Oh!" exclaimed Stevenson before Schvaneveldt could reply, shoving him aside. "Oh, you are a godsend! Exactly the person we need right now. Please, please, fix this mess so we can get back to work!"
Annoyed as he was at being called out in such an embarrassing manner, Chekov simply couldn't pass up an opportunity to go head-to-head with a stubborn computer. After delivering his laptop into the hands of Stevenson, Chekov rolled his shoulders and shook his hands out as if he were about to play a complicated Rachmaninoff piano concerto. It was a short, mostly subconscious ritual he performed before attempting anything technical like taking his station on the bridge, reprogramming various ship functions, or stalking smugglers.
All attention settled on the Russian Wonder as he took over the console, which would have made him feel awkward had there not been a misbehaving piece of technology under his fingers. Instead, everything faded into the background, becoming nothing more than white noise. They were alone, just him and a knot of code on a glass panel. It was easy enough to untangle and soon, with a final tap, the computer rebooted, crystal clear and running smoothly.
"There you go." He stepped aside, offering a half-smile and eager to be on his way.
Stevenson appeared so happy he could cry. Schvaneveldt, however, scowled.
"Is…something wrong?"
"You're just little punk," the tall man huffed, "that's what's wrong. I was halfway through the Academy before you were even out of diapers."
"Uh…good for you…?"
"Yeah, good for me." Schvaneveldt poked the ensign in the chest. "Good for me for graduating top of my class, fighting my way up the ladder and punching through all the idiots for years to get one lousy place on a federation research team. Good for me for getting swept under the rug with everyone else whenever some new twerp like you comes along. And why do you little runts always have to be teenagers? That's the worst part."
"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be sewen—eighteen," Chekov spluttered in confusion. "I mean, I was only trying to—why are you upset with—we are not even in ze same department!"
Scvhaneveldt advanced, causing the navigator to stumble backwards. It seemed somehow unfitting to Chekov to fall into a wall of artifact containers instead of a row of lockers under the glower of a bully. Fortunately, the storage slots were much too small for anyone to be stuffed into. And there were plenty of witnesses here. This was the most damage Schvaneveldt could do…for now.
"Doesn't matter. You don't deserve your place on this starship. You don't deserve a place on any starship at your age while the rest of us—the rest of the adults—slave away at the bottom."
"Knock it off, Schvaneveldt!" someone called from the sidelines.
"Seriously?" Chekov regained his balance, making a point of returning the older man's acidic stare with a few daggers of his own. "It's ze twenty-third century. Shouldn't morons like you have been eliminated from ze genepool by now?"
A few "ooh"s spread through the crowd, only serving to agitate Schvaneveldt further.
"Oh, don't worry," he spat. "As long as there are brats like you running around, there will always be someone to put you back in your place. Get used to it."
The young Russian's fists clenched.
Don't do it, Pavel, don't punch him in his stupid face, it's not worth it. You're a command officer, so be a command officer. You're on the bridge, he's not…
The tall man threw one last condescending smirk over his shoulder as he made for the exit. "Well, kiddo, enjoy your field trip but try not to wander off. You don't want to be late for snack time."
He rounded the corner, leaving a flustered Chekov burning with humiliation in the gaze of the bystanders.
"Sorry about that," Stevenson murmured, dropping the laptop back into its owner's hands. "Trust me, it's not you. Guy's a piece of work and throws a fit over some stupid new issue every day, I swear. And thanks for the quick-fix, kid. Way to save our system…and our butts."
"Uh, you're…you're welcome. Any time." Chekov nodded vigorously, watching the grateful science officer hurry off.
"Chekov? Ensign Chekov!"
Chekov started at the sound of his title spoken in his native language and turned around.
"What's everyone staring at?" Dr. Sylar approached him. "I hope Schvaneveldt wasn't giving anybody a hard time again."
Chekov rubbed the back of his neck in response, unable to meet the other man's eyes.
"Ah, I see. Honestly, I think he just likes the attention, but mark my words, someday it's going to come back to bite him." Sliding an arm around the boy's shoulders, Dr. Sylar steered him into the archaeology lab. "Anyway, it's best to forget him. You're here to see Briony, I assume?"
As expected, Sylar's assistant was hovering over the farthest workstation, completely absorbed in the shiny object she was cleaning under a lamp.
"Briony, my dear," the doctor called in Standard, "you have company."
She straightened, a grin instantly gracing her round face. Chekov had to wonder how she managed to stay so cheerful in the midst of her dangerous situation and wished that he possessed such a gift as well.
"Oh, Braincase! Hi!"
The nickname brought a faint smile to the ensign's lips. It felt wonderful and warm, like sunlight through storm clouds. If only he could keep it handy for when he needed it most, as Briony seemed to do.
"Yes, well," Dr. Sylar gave Chekov a light tap between the shoulder blades and headed for the door, "as much as I'd love to stick around, I've still got a pile of scrolls from Proctaria-7 that won't organize themselves."
"All right, I'll see you later, Dr. Sylar." Briony put down the tiny brush she had been using and deposited the artifact into a crate, sealing it before hurrying over. With her hands shoved into her lab coat pockets, she appeared more like an elated schoolgirl than a Starfleet science specialist. "So, how's the head—oh…oh, wow…" Her expression dropped into deep concern. "Just Pavel, you look awful."
He had no doubt about that. Tracking down smugglers and debating with stubborn hallucinations on very little sleep and a killer headache would do that to a guy, he guessed. His cringed while his friend studied him from head to toe, worry lines lengthening on her face. Chekov could see his reflection in the lenses of her glasses and he looked exactly how he felt; like a child. A small, wide-eyed, terrified child.
"Something's wrong," Briony concluded at last. "I mean, something other than our current issue, right?"
He nodded without saying a word, and he didn't have to. Everything she needed to know was right there on his face, in his eyes, in his posture, all for the world to see.
Briony's next question caught him completely off-guard. "Have…have you eaten anything today?"
He blinked, then shook his head and winced as a sharp pain jabbed through it.
"Okay, come with me," she spun him around and shuffled him toward the door, "let's get some food in you before anything else. I promise it'll help."
…
Much of the walk to the mess hall was a blur. People passed by in smears of red, blue, and gold, and between mounting worry and jolts of pain, Chekov heard Briony talking about—among many other things—being able to think better on a full stomach. He could neither agree or disagree, having never tried the theory out for himself, but now was as good a time as any since he was in need of all the extra thinking help he could get.
Soon, he found himself seated across from her, squinting at her over a couple plates of warm, delicious-smelling…what was it? Chekov had sampled a wide variety of dishes since entering the Academy and landing a position on the Enterprise, but he was in unfamiliar territory with this one. He definitely would've remembered the sweet, spicy, amazing…
Briony stabbed a fork into her helping and shoveled in a mouthful, closing her eyes as she savored it.
"Mmmyeah. Really hits the spot, huh?"
He glanced down. Occupying his own plate was another sizeable triangle of the stuff. The outside was a golden brown and flaky crust, and the inside oozed with a thick, gooey sauce full of…were those apple chunks? Those were apple chunks.
Briony lifted an eyebrow. "Um, you're supposed to eat it, not memorize it."
"What…what is it?"
The young woman's fork clattered onto the tabletop. "Are you kidding—apple pie. This is apple p—don't tell me you've never had apple pie before."
"I hef never had apple pie before." Chekov shrugged apologetically.
"Whaaaaat? How can you not have had apple pie?"
"I don't know. I guess I never got around to trying it…?"
"Oh, Just Pavel," she sighed, shaking her head, "you poor, poor thing. I'm so sorry."
"For what?"
"That you've been deprived of the sheer joy that is apple pie up to this point in your life. However, I am deeply honored to be the lucky one to introduce you to it now. Apple pie, Ensign Chekov. Ensign Chekov, apple pie. There, you can go ahead and try it."
With her blessing, the ensign scooped up a bite…
This was a confection of pure, simple beauty. It was impossibly tart, sweet and buttery all at the same time, a perfect blend of rich flavor and soft texture. Melting into his taste buds like a piece of heaven, the food instantly won his highest approval, and it must have shown, judging by Briony's light giggle.
"Wonderful, isn't it?"
He didn't answer out loud, figuring that the second forkful already going into his mouth spoke for itself.
"It's my favorite," Briony went on, dissecting her slice in search of the tastiest morsel. "Not as good as my Granna used to make for me—and no replicator will ever rival her cooking, of course—but it reminds me of home. You know, takes my mind off things, puts me at ease. It's a comfort food—whoa, take it easy, Braincase!"
Much to the astonishment of each, they found Chekov's plate to be nearly empty.
"I think I might hef been hungry."
Briony snorted. "No kidding. Hey, you're looking better, at any rate."
"I'm feeling better."
"See? What did I tell you? Food helps everything." She settled with her elbows on the table and her chin resting on clasped hands. "So, are you ready to tell me what's wrong?"
No. No, he wasn't, but it didn't matter. Chekov had to confide in someone or risk driving himself further down the path to the psych ward. How was he supposed to put it, though? It had to make sense and it had to get straight to the point…
"Do you…do you think I am crazy?"
…and it probably shouldn't have been like that.
Briony tilted her head to the side.
"Do I what?"
"I…I said, um…" Chekov stalled, occupying himself by picking up Briony's pen and scribbling on a napkin before lowering his voice and repeating the question. "Do you think I am crazy?"
There was no hesitation.
"Pft, of course I think you're crazy!"
Though he'd become increasingly doubtful of his sanity over the last few hours, this was not quite the response Chekov had been hoping for. However, he only had himself to blame for phrasing the question so poorly in the first place.
"You're an eighteen-year-old ensign sitting on the bridge of the Federation's flagship! If that's not crazy, I don't know what…is…" she faded as Chekov's already downcast demeanor drooped further and he continued scribbling. "Oh…ohhh, no, that wasn't the type of 'crazy' you meant, was it?"
He shook his head and Briony retreated from the table. Pressing her hands into her lap while chewing a lip, an embarrassed flush bloomed beneath the freckles on her cheeks.
"I'm so sorry, Pavel, I completely misunderstood…" Again, she drifted, this time squinting at the napkin. "What's that?"
To his astonishment, Chekov realized his drawing was a more complete and organized version of the one he'd carved in his wall. It was an ellipse encompassing several smaller circles, which in turn housed what were clearly symbols belonging to a written language. A language he'd never seen in his life.
It was happening. Again. And while he was fully awake in the presence of another person.
"It's…nothing." He dropped the pen, crossing his arms over the napkin and hoping the panic wasn't too obvious. "I was thinking, zat is all."
"Um, forgive me for prying, but do you normally sketch mandalas on napkins while deep in thought?"
Chekov couldn't exactly tell if she was serious or not. "N-no—I mean, yes! All ze time, actually. Yes, it's just…what I do, heh."
"Okay, this is going to sound strange, but..." forehead creasing, Briony slipped into her own thoughts for a few seconds, "I could swear I've seen the design before. Fairly recently, too. Would you mind if I borrowed that?"
Yes.
"Oh! No, no, not at all. Here, it's all yours." Grimacing, he didn't move.
"Uh..." Gingerly, she lifted his arms and removed the napkin from under them, tucking it inside her notebook. "Thanks. Anyway, all random mandala-doodling aside, why would I think you're crazy?"
Because I sleep-gouged a bunch of weird symbols into my wall and I'm almost convinced there's an entire alien civilization represented by an annoying guy named Matharus that only I can see or hear living inside my head.
"Because…er…" he shoved aside his plate, replacing it with his laptop, "because I stayed up most of ze night tracking our artifact thief."
Briony's eyebrows knit together in mild suspicion. "Is that really why you asked?"
"Yes," Chekov answered a little too quickly. "Here, let me show you what I found." He turned the computer sideways, allowing them both a decent view of the screen, and pulled up the schematic from the previous night's stakeout.
"Hey, the archives!" Briony sounded impressed.
"Yes, but this is only ze beginning." Chekov hit a key and the schematic came to life with flitting dots and identification numbers.
She gasped, leaning in for a closer look. "Wow, that's…those are…"
"Real people in real time. I can see everyone who goes in or out of ze archives."
"Okay, maybe you are a little crazy…or at least kind of scary."
"Ze trouble is I don't know who they are because I could only get so far through ze ship's system. But I did catch one person sitting around in a place called ze 'vault'. Is that somewhere people normally tend to linger?"
"No, not at all. I mean, our lockers are in there, but the vault is more of a storage space, really. Nothing very interesting…unless you count the Restricted Zone."
"Restricted Zone?" Chekov repeated.
"Yeah," she pointed out the area on the screen, "right there. It's a secure space where any potentially dangerous artifacts are kept. Hardly anyone's allowed in and there's no way someone would want to just hang out in a place like that."
"Interesting. Zat isn't exactly where ze person was, but wery, wery close."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean zat they were right here," he indicated the spot immediately outside the schematic's borders, "not even on ze map. And they barely moved ze whole time I was watching."
"Great. So, now we're dealing with a person…or entity, who can apparently phase through walls?"
"I'm not so sure they were phasing through ze wall…"
"How else would you explain it, then?"
"Hidden compartment, maybe?"
"Oho," Briony huffed, "even better."
"There are lots of small, concealed spaces and gaps on ze Enterprise where ze ship's design requires room for access to wiring and pipes and so on. Outside of Engineering, wery few know they exist, but literally anyone could put one to warious uses if they heppened upon it."
Briony's forehead creased with worry. "Well, that's not creepy at all."
"81DD7," Chekov went on. "Do you recognize zat ID number at all? It belongs to our mysterious hovering dot."
"Mmmayyybe. Should I?"
"Hm," he gave the keyboard another tap, "what about this? Does it look familiar?"
The xeno-archaeologist's mouth dropped open. "I don't believe—you found the file?!"
"It took me some time, but—" The rest of Chekov's was lost in the impromptu hug his friend stretched across the tabletop to envelop him in.
"Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I thought it was gone forever!"
"N-no…no problem," he gasped as she released him. "Uh…but ze number was on ze file. It was ze one used to access ze system every time ze inwentory was updated. You remember it now, no?"
"Yes…well, vaguely. At the time, I was more concerned about missing artifacts than memorizing ID numbers. It's a lead, though, isn't it?"
"Oh, it's more than zat. This is our smuggler, I'm sure of it. In fact, I think I may hef made contact."
Briony's features paled. "You what?"
"Not face-to-face, don't worry." Chekov raised his hands, wiggling his fingers in an animated typing motion. "I went through ze computer and there is no way they will ever know it was me talking to them. Ze important thing is we do hef at least some idea of who they might be, which puts us one step ahead."
Despite her worry, Briony couldn't suppress a grin. "So, if we find the person who belongs to 81DD7…"
"…we find our thief."