Chapter 9
A slight stirring brought Dr. McCoy to his patient's bedside equipped with a tricorder and a penlight. Carefully, as he had done countless times over the last two hours, he spread apart each pair of the boy's eyelids in turn, shining the light directly on the pupils underneath. Unlike every previous test, however, this one got a reaction.
With a grunt of protest, the young man twitched, squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away. McCoy nudged it back into place and proceeded with the light, but Chekov was apparently having no more of this. Mumbling, he again attempted escape by rolling his head to the side.
The renegade navigator was on his way back to consciousness, which was reassuring in terms of recovery, yet disheartening now that he would have to reconcile with the truth about why he was here in the first place. Barely eighteen, Chekov faced charges better suited for a seasoned criminal, possibly a mediocre terrorist.
"K-keryptha...th...thr'od..." he slurred, eyes still closed. "Noek u ysma'ats."
"Sorry, kid, I don't have the faintest inkling what you're trying to tell me," Dr. McCoy checked the monitor above the bed, "but that definitely isn't Russian. Either way, I don't speak a lick of any of it. Mind running that by me again in Standard?"
The teen's features contorted with intense concentration, as if he were trying to remember what Standard even was let alone how to use it.
"Wh…where'm I?"
It was more of a mumble than a question, but it happened to be on the list of mumbles the doctor heard all too often in his line of work, so the answer was automatic.
"Medbay."
The doctor watched him swim into a hazy consciousness and, with visibly mounting anxiety and discomfort, open his eyes to discover himself in a white and fiercely sterile partitioned room. Attired in the equally sterile pajama-like garb of a medbay patient, he was lying propped partway up with monitors all around, a couple of wires attached to each of his temples, and an IV line feeding into one arm. That arm, along with the rest of his limbs and even his chest, were strapped firmly to the biobed.
Chekov gave the restraints a pull and his pulse on the monitors picked up speed.
"I c-can't move…"
Hoo boy, here we go. McCoy hadn't expected any different response, but suddenly realized he'd been dreading this moment. The moment where he had to be the one to refresh Chekov's memory and drop the bad news.
"That's the point," Dr. McCoy replied dryly. "You're not thinking straight. In fact, I'm pretty sure you're thinking in every direction except straight. And the drugs aren't doing you any favors right now, that's for sure."
As anticipated, this did nothing to calm the navigator and he squirmed.
"All right, all right, simmer down—"
"Doctor McCoy, what is going—why am I—I can't move!"
"I know, Chekov, and I'm sorry, but it's a necessary safety—"
The squirms escalated into full-on struggling panic. "'Necessary'?! Why is this—please let me go!"
"No can do. Listen to me, kid, you need to stop this or I'll—"
"Is zat a hypo? Zat is a hypo! Let me go! You hef to let me—"
"Actually, no, I don't, so you might as well—"
"HELP! SOMEBODY GET ME OUT OF HERE! HE HAS A HYPO AND I'M BEING HELD AGAINST MY—"
"Oh, for the love—you have got to settle down!" McCoy hissed, rushing to clamp a hand over Chekov's mouth. "There are people in this place trying to sleep—sick people—and the last thing they need is you raising Hell like you're being tortured!"
He lifted his hand…
"But I am being—" Chekov started.
…and immediately put it back.
"I can't believe I'm saying this," McCoy grumbled, "but you just might be worse coming out of sedatives than Jim. You are not being tortured and you are not leaving this room until I find out what's wrong with you and how to fix it. Stop. Shouting."
Chekov glared.
"And don't you dare bite me or I will use the hypo."
Dr. McCoy waited a moment before releasing him, just in case.
"Why am I here and why am I being restrained?" asked the teen the moment he was free.
"You mean, you don't remember?"
"No."
"Huh, well, you'd think it would be pretty hard for a guy who singlehandedly tried to hijack a starship to forget about it so quickly."
His patient's face drained of color. "I…what?"
"At phaserpoint," McCoy tacked on for emphasis. "I was there for that part."
"Ayy, no," Chekov moaned after a lengthy, stunned silence. "Ay-yi-yi, Matharus, you didn't…"
A little red warning light—the one most often reserved for when Kirk or Spock (or both) were about to do something insufferably stupid—flicked on inside the chief medical officer's head.
"Ma-who-us?" he asked, picking up the PADD containing Chekov's file. He had a feeling it was about to get a lot bigger and much more interesting, so he might as well have it handy
"Uh…" the ensign backpedaled, "d-did I say—"
"Yes, you did. Who's 'Matharus'?"
Cornered, Chekov aggressively chewed a lip.
"Listen, you're in serious hot water and no position to be hiding anything. You're lucky I still need to finish running full diagnostics on you, otherwise you'd be sitting in the brig right now."
The boy gulped, but said nothing.
"The readouts coming from your brain are like nothing I've ever seen before. Peaks and valleys off the chart and fireworks all over the place. It's a wonder you've even managed to regain consciousness."
"F-fire…works?"
"You tried to take over a Federation starship, Chekov," Dr. McCoy clarified, brandishing the PADD. "Not just any Federation star ship. The flagship. By yourself. No one, especially you, would even think of doing something that stupid unless there were a few wires crossed in there."
"B-but I told you, I can't remember anything! A-and what would I even do with ze Enterprise, anyway?!"
"There are about ten to fifteen witnesses, including myself, who're wondering the same thing."
"I—but how?!"
"I got there after most of the action went down, but from what I hear—and what I saw—you put on quite the show. Stormed onto the bridge in a rage, smacked the captain in the face, bit Scotty, almost broke Sulu's jaw and the ship itself…"
"It wasn't me, I swear! It couldn't hef—"
"If it wasn't you, they sure fooled me."
"Maybe it just...looked like me."
"Well, this is going downhill fast." Dr. McCoy, rubbed his forehead and heaved a sigh. "Of course. Your long-lost evil twin, then?"
The teen fidgeted, visibly desperate to escape interrogation and knowing full well he wasn't going anywhere.
"M-Matharus."
"Oh, him again. And just how did Matharus, whoever he is, create such an amazingly convincing illusion of you wreaking havoc across the bridge?"
Chekov closed his eyes and drew in a breath, looking as if he were about to spill on the crime of the century.
"Matharus...Matharus is a consciousness...who lives in my head and represents ze last of a highly adwanced race of people who hef chosen me to return them to their ancestral planet. Um...he took over my mind and...must hef forced me to try to hijack ze Enterprise...?"
The doctor paused to lift an eyebrow before swiveling to frown at the monitor once more.
"Get comfortable, kid. You're gonna be here a while."
…
The galaxy was a big place full of differing opinions and fluctuating tempers and not everyone saw eye-to-eye with the ideals of the Federation. That being said, Captain Kirk was accustomed to having the crap kicked out of him every once in a while.
In fact, just a few months prior, in a single day he'd been involved in a precarious skirmish with a gang of Romulan thugs atop a space drill platform about five miles above the surface of Vulcan, picked a fight with an angry Spock (twice), and taken on the crew and captain of a Romulan mining vessel bent on destroying earth. Before that, he'd had a few tiffs at the Academy, and numerous bar, back alley and schoolyard brawls before joining Starfleet and putting his restless energy to a more constructive use.
When he was promoted and given his own ship to command, he knew there would still be the occasional scrap or two, although he was now much more likely to ask questions rather than shoot first. However, in this particular situation, it seemed that questions were all he was going to get. It had never occurred to him that he might someday be randomly attacked by one of his own, especially when that person was a young, brilliant and usually friendly navigator.
Not everyone in his line of work was suddenly forced to handle the aftermath of a teen prodigy's crazy but not quite voluntary attempt at a hijacking. Fortunately, Kirk wasn't just "everyone". Improvising on-the-fly was a sort of gift and one of many reasons he was now the youngest active captain in Starfleet history. Better yet, he didn't have to take on this problem alone. He was surrounded by the top of the top, the best and the brightest Starfleet had to offer, most of whom he'd quickly grown to consider his closest friends—no, his family. And, as a family, they shared a significant bond that couldn't be severed easily. Together, they would figure this out, just like they always did.
But that wasn't possible until they had somewhere to start.
So, what could have snapped inside that kid's head to lead to that bizarre showdown on the bridge? What had driven him to all-out madness? Why was Kirk now on his way to oversee the preliminary investigation of Chekov's quarters with one watering, smarting eye starting to swell?
"Captain," a security officer greeted him as he approached the entrance. "Sir, you really need to see this."
The urgency behind the officer's words and his grave expression promised nothing good, and Kirk found himself almost reluctant to follow. Nevertheless, duty—and more importantly, concern for a comrade—called.
Although he knew it was for the best, crossing the threshold into Chekov's quarters gave Kirk a shot of guilt, as if he were betraying the boy's trust. Maybe more like an older brother invading a sibling's personal space. At first glance, the neutral beige walls and standard issue furniture made it seem like any other officers' lodgings one might find aboard a starship. But within seconds, it was apparent he'd entered not just anyone's quarters, but the lair of a teenager. And furthermore, not just any teenager. Lingering adolescence fused seamlessly with pure genius, resulting in some interesting interior decorating. Posters plastered the walls, the faces of admired scientists and ancient star charts scattered among popular movie and music memorabilia. A heap of clothes took up the floor in front of a pair of overstuffed but meticulously organized bookcases. A prized science trophy was on display next to a pile of retro comics. A basketball shared a corner with a well-used chess table. A Russian flag proudly graced the wall above the head of the bed…
They caught Kirk's eye before the security officer could point them out. Just below the flag, in stark contrast to the atmosphere of the rest of the place, a series of jagged gouges marred the once smooth wall. They were deep and sporadic. One might even say frantic.
But, they couldn't possibly be the work of a teenager in his right mind, genius or not…could they?
…
Miserable.
That was the only term that came close to describing Chekov's current mood. It had been about thirty minutes since Dr. McCoy left possibly knowing more about the inside of the boy's head than even he did, which just didn't seem fair. Not only that, but he could hear the aftermath of the chaos he'd inadvertently created. Medical personnel rushed by his partition, ushering the incoming flow of patients. As far as Chekov had been able to gather, there were only a couple serious injuries among them and the rest were varying degrees of scrapes and bruises.
This was his fault. He had no memory of how exactly he'd done it, but he was the one who had hurt these people—several of them, like Sulu and Scotty, close friends. He was responsible for every single cut, concussion and cracked bone that now needed repairing, all because he couldn't keep his hands off a chunk of metal with an intriguing design on the top.
"Chekov? Oh…"
The quiet voice pulled him back to the present and he opened his eyes to see Briony standing in the doorway. Her usually cheerful demeanor was dampened by a shroud of worry. He could see it in her eyes, which widened as she entered the room. Keeping her distance, she skirted the wall, taking shelter in a corner.
Chekov shifted, growing more uncomfortable with every second she spent gawking at him. He hated that she was seeing him at his worst. He hated the warmth of humiliation spreading through his cheeks. He hated that he was strapped to a bed and plugged into machines. He hated that he couldn't remember how he'd ended up like this in the first place and had no answers to give to anyone, including himself.
"Yes," she said after an awkward moment. "The answer's yes."
"What?"
"I think you're crazy."
He groaned. "You came all ze way here just to tell me zat?"
"Actually, I came all the way here for a couple reasons, which I'll get to shortly—but keep in mind I'm sort of terrified of you right now."
Judging by the doctor's account, she had good reason to be. Chekov had nothing to say in his defense.
"Anyway, um...the first is to say 'thank you' for everything you did to help me. Our thief has been caught."
"What?"
"Schvaneveldt, also known as 81DD7, saved us the trouble of a long search and got himself arrested. Um, make that he will be arrested as soon as he's out of sickbay. Dr. Sylar and I found him buried under a pile of junk in the vault. He'd apparently been in the act of stashing more artifacts in his locker when whatever you did to the ship knocked him flat."
His stomach clenched. "You know I was ze one who—"
Briony lifted an eyebrow. "Everyone knows that was you, now, Chekov. Kind of hard to attempt a starship hijacking without being noticed."
"Wh-what about ze wall in ze Restricted Zone?" Chekov asked quickly, hoping to avoid any further discussion on his earlier escapade. "Anything new on zat?"
"I…haven't told anyone yet. I'm afraid that if I do, you'll get in trouble for hacking the system and breaching security. And...well, you have enough trouble as it is."
"We are going to hef to tell someone ewentually…"
Briony shuffled, eyes on the ground. "Yeah. I guess you're right. But for now, I'm just happy that it's over."
While Chekov shared her sentiment, he couldn't help thinking the conclusion of this case seemed a bit premature.
"And that brings me to the second reason I'm here." She pulled in a breath. "I don't believe the Pavel Chekov I met a few days ago would ever pull a stunt like attempting a solo hostile takeover of the bridge."
So much for avoiding further discussion.
"No one else can believe it either," Chekov muttered.
"No, no, I mean, I don't believe you're at fault for what happened."
Lost for words, he stared at her. If she was implying what he thought she was implying…
"The mandala," she said, "the one you drew on the napkin a few hours ago. It matches the design on the artifact that tried to kill you, or it would if the pieces of the puzzle were put together."
Of course it did. Why else would he be scratching it into walls in his sleep and drawing it on napkins without realizing it? He hadn't gotten a decent look at the sphere the night it fried his brain, but now that Briony brought it up, its significance made complete sense.
"Something happened to you when you touched it," she went on. "That was more than just a bolt of electricity to the head you got the other day, wasn't it? You're…you're connected to it somehow."
Chekov nodded, but otherwise remained silent.
"Look, I realize we've only just met, and this might sound weird or stupid, but I feel like I can help you, both as a friend and a xeno-archaeologist." Briony approached the bed cautiously, hands clasped. "I thought that if—together—we can discover the purpose of the sphere, then maybe we'll get some answers. Deadly or not, it's still an artifact and studying artifacts is what I do every day."
Any lasting hope Chekov had been harboring quickly abandoned ship and vanished into outer space. He already knew the purpose of the sphere all too well. He already knew more about it than any xeno-archaeologist could ever hope to in a lifetime. Even if he could convince Briony that his story was true, there wasn't a lot she could do about it.
On the other hand, what else did he have to lose?
"I…I should get back to the lab to clean up." Briony turned, a hint of disappointment tainting her words. "I'm sorry, I just…I just wanted to help you like you helped me."
"Ze sphere…" Chekov blurted, partly because he didn't want to be left alone again, but mostly because he couldn't let the one person who might be his only ally walk out the door.
It worked. She paused, facing him expectantly.
"Ze night we were talking in my quarters…a few hours after you left, I fell asleep or passed out or something and I had a dream…or a wision."
That got her attention.
"I was in a cave, woices all around me, too many to count," he related rapidly. "They told me they were ze last of their race, preserved inside ze sphere, which they called a 'Wessel'…"
"A what?"
"Wwvessel," Chekov grunted in frustration. This was not the time for language gaffes. "A wvvessel!"
"Oh, vessel! You're saying 'vessel'."
"Da, yes! Ze long story shortened, I hef been chosen by these people to be their guardian and return them home. Ze catch is zat they are all…well, they are all living inside my head right now."
They sat in silence while Briony processed and Chekov prayed that she wouldn't abandon him as a lost cause. He tasted blood, only then realizing he'd gnawed the inside of his lip raw had to force himself to stop.
"This is…this is remarkable," Briony breathed at last. "So, when you touched the sphere, you literally became the 'Vessel'."
"Wait," Chekov said once the initial shock wore off and he remembered how to make words, "you…you believe me?"
"Is there any reason I shouldn't?"
"No! No, not at all! I'm just..."
"Surprised?"
"Y-yes. Wery much so."
"I told you I would help you, Just Pavel. I'm not about to write you off as a hopeless case yet."
That was much more encouraging than anything Dr. McCoy had said to him—not that Dr. McCoy was the outwardly encouraging type to begin with.
"Can you help me?"
She became occupied with her own thoughts for several moments. "You and I both know that any lifeform, no matter its physical state, has basic needs, and the strongest ones—the smartest ones—will always find a way to survive." Surprisingly, she gave him a smile. "That's where all the greatest stories come from. That's why I became an archaeologist."
"Is zat a 'yes'?"
"I'm almost certain I've heard of a case like this, a consciousness or being taking a host and using them to achieve their own ends."
"Like hijacking a starship to go home?"
"That kind of thing would be extremely rare, but, bizarre as it sounds…yeah, exactly like that." She began to pace, prattling and gesturing animatedly as she did. "I'll have to comb the ship's database, of course, possibly a few others if I can manage to download them this far out of range, but I've got to find somewhere to start. Hm, maybe I should try Rachel back at the Academy? She might have a reference or a tip—"
"So, it is a yes."
"Yes! Definitely yes. I'll just need a little time..."
"How much?"
She teetered on the tips of her toes, adjusting the glasses. "Enough to dig up a solid alibi that will keep you from being court-martialed."
Chekov cringed inwardly. In the deepest pit of his stomach, he knew it was a likely consequence, but hearing it out loud…
"And after we prove I'm not insane," he rushed past that thought, "we can work on getting all ze people out of my head."
Briony choked on a giggle. "Okay, I'm so sorry, but if you weren't already strapped to a bed—"
"Ayy, please don't finish zat," moaned Chekov.