Chapter 2

Chekov knew why he liked coming here. These labs were an oasis: a refuge from the teaming world around them. There were no expectations here: no one expected him to be funny; no one expected him to good-natured; no one expected him to be happy; no one even expected him to share the littlest part of his life with them.

The only thing anyone expected of him here was that he do his work. He found it strangely comforting on a basic level.

The Navigator reached out and adjusted the display on the computer screen in front of him. He wasn't working on what was displayed there, wasn't even reading it: but the image was slightly eschewed and it was annoying him. He entwined his fingers again and went back to his silent, slumped reverie. The eerie light cast off by the screen etched dramatic, horrifying shadows across his face in the dark room.

The corner of Chekov's lip edged up slightly in rueful acknowledgment when he heard the door swish open and close on the other side of the room. The man's predictability was downright cathartic. He felt the presence settle into a dispassionate stance behind him. The Navigator said nothing.

"Will the lights disturb your work, Ensign?"

"Not hardly, Sir."

"Lights."

"Mr. Chekov, you have not entered into the data review database, nor have you initiated further research."

"Didn't feel like working, Sir."

The man moved then to stand beside Chekov's seated form. "Then your presence in the Science Labs has another purpose this evening, Ensign."

Spock was a genius, thought Chekov. Pitifully enough, he had known that if he activated the research station the Science Officer would appear to discern why Chekov was working on their current project without notifying him. "That's a logical conclusion," is what he said aloud.

"To expect anything else would be..."

"Illogical."

"Unintelligent."

This time, the slight smile traced all the way across Chekov's lips. "Point conceded."

Silence took hold again and, although it dragged on, it didn't seem odd. The Science Officer finally shifted his position slightly: cocking his head to eye the Navigator. "Ensign, you are troubled about your father," he stated.

Chekov glanced at Spock for the first time. His dark eyes had a sharp, accusatory glint in them.

"Your telepathic block is intact," the Science Officer assured him with a flat tone. "I find your father's image clearly present in this room, however. The only logical reason for such a lapse on your part is that you are concerned about him."

"Of course it is." The Navigator turned his gaze back, unseeing, to the computer screen.

Humans–all of them–were born with some amount of telepathic ability. At the very least they could sense the moods of those around them if they paid attention. A rare few could be compared to the most skillful Vulcan. That's why Starfleet Academy required every one of its cadets to be tested for their telepathic rating, no matter their planet of origin or ethic group.

With Chekov, what they had discovered was that he could not be tested.

Which meant he had at least enough ability to block their tests...and not the control, nor the desire, to allow them. It was enough for Starfleet to deduce that Pavel Chekov was in very low danger of ever being hypnotized, brainwashed, or the subject of anything but a violently forced mindmeld. Which was the only information Starfleet was interested in when they tested their cadets to begin with.

The Navigator knew that his telepathic block made him a perfect assistant for the Vulcan's personal research projects. Certainly Chekov had the keen mind, scientific aptitude, intense curiosity, driving work ethic and unreasonable need for perfectionism that were the ship's Science Officer's requirements for anyone coming near his research. What Chekov didn't have was the random thoughts that most Humans projected into the room around them like so much flying confetti. It was a constant irritant that true telepaths had to train themselves to block out for their own sanity.

For whatever reason that Chekov instinctively protected his mind, he didn't project his thoughts beyond the barrier he'd constructed either, except in the rarest of cases. Or at least that was what Spock had told him. Frankly, the young man thought the idea that he had any telepathic ability was simply a load of crap they had put in his record to cover up the Academy examiners' miserable failure in testing him.

Except...he knew something about Spock which the Navigator was sure wasn't meant to be known by anyone. Chekov could instinctively feel it when they were near each other; could sense with a solid grasp of reality that could only come from some odd telepathic ability: Commander Spock had feelings.

Well, all Vulcans had feelings, Chekov reasoned. It was the sheer intensity of their passionate emotions that had caused them as a race to reign them in with logic before they caused the wholesale destruction of their people. Chekov knew the Enterprise's logical First Officer, however, allowed himself those rare, subtle feelings on occasion. Barely a feeling for a Human: but for a Vulcan even such indulgences in subtle emotions were earth-shattering.

Chekov always knew how Spock was feeling–well, when he was, of course. When they were alone doing research in the private sanctuary of the Science Labs what he often sensed from the calm Vulcan was relief. He doubted anyone really understood how much effort it took for the man to work constantly with other races whose nuisance thoughts were always around them. Which, the Navigator had deduced, was the logical reason the First Officer allowed himself to feel relieved on occasion when he was finally away from them.

Although Chekov knew that private meditation could bring Spock the quiet his mind needed, he also knew even Vulcans did not consider such solitude a priority. Clean, clear research work with another person whose presence did not necessitate the mental distraction of ignoring their thoughts was what Spock often required. The Science Officer could count on the Ensign's presence when he needed it. Just as Chekov could count on Spock to appear at the rare times when he admitted he needed to see the older man.

The Science Officer turned the chair that was beside Chekov and bent his form into it. "The logical conclusion to be made from your father being so evident in your mind is that your recent sulking is due to a preoccupation with him, Ensign. Is this correct?"

Chekov only nodded dismally. His gut response was to declare that he hadn't been sulking, but maintaining such a thing to Spock would have been an effort in futility. Especially since the man had actually used the word 'sulking' instead of 'emotional distress'.

"In addition, since you have chosen to report here with no intention of conducting further research, logic dictates that your purpose here is for another reason."

Making a sour face, the younger man rolled his dark eyes. "Why don't you just say I wanted to talk to you, Mr. Spock?"

An elegant eyebrow raising, the Commander straightened with what could almost have passed for indignation. "I believe I did, Ensign."

The slightest of smiles traced over Chekov's lips. "Of course you did, Sir."

"In what way may I be of service, Mr. Chekov?"

Sighing miserably, the Navigator picked at some non-existent speck of dust on his pants. "Mr. Spock, do all problems have a logical solution?"

"Yes."

Chuckling at the man's simplicity, the younger man almost smiled again. "Well, then my mind is nowhere near disciplined enough because I don't see it. I guess I need to work on teaching my mind to think like a Vulcan."

"Ensign, you have a very organized mind for a Human. To strive to be something you are not is not logical."

Chekov let his eyes close and sank further into the chair. Well, then it sucks to be Human.

He knew Spock heard the thought because he felt him fold his arms across his chest in disapproval. "This conversation would be more productive at a time when you are thinking clearer, Mr. Chekov."

"Mr. Spock," he drawled without opening his eyes. "Are you accusing me of being drunk?"

The Science Officer did not answer for a moment. "Ensign, you reek," is what he finally said.

The Vulcan got the smile out of him that no one else had been able to. "I do," he agreed and, opening his eyes, cast a glance over at the older man. "Something to be considered in the future when choosing between vodka and beer." He pushed himself up to a more appropriate position in the chair. "Of course, the degree of inebriation each beverage incurs is the most logical consideration in making the choice between them. I'm not drunk, Sir," he concluded. "Just...impaired."

"Then we must strive to prevent the ship from requiring a red alert status."

"We certainly must," Chekov agreed firmly.

Spock ignored his thinly disguised humor. "Which problem are you finding it difficult to answer with logic, Ensign?"

The Navigator sighed dismally again, chewing on his lip for a long moment. He would have gone on that way but knew Spock was going to make a snide...logical...comment about the futility of his behavior.

"When I was young," he explained, "I did something that I shouldn't have. I thought I was amazingly clever at the time and was very proud of myself." Chekov pulled his troubled eyes over to look at the First Officer with difficulty. "Cocky people pay for the shit they pull. It's come back to bite me in the ass."

"I cannot assist you if you insist on relying on otherwise useless emotional metaphors to communicate."

"I said everything a person does has consequences, even when they are delayed by a long passage of time."

Spock stared at Chekov in consideration for a moment. "I did not deduce that meaning from your previous outburst."

Outburst? Chekov thought wryly. That was an outburst? To Spock, of course it was. "Forgive me for my emotional lapse, Sir."

The Science Officer nodded slowly and lowered his hands to his lap. "It would be more effective if you refrain from doing so again, Ensign."

"I will attempt to accommodate you."

"Mr. Chekov, that would be greatly appreciated."

"No problemo." He looked away quickly, smiling again as both of the First Officer's eyebrows shot up. The Navigator knew that his feeling at ease enough to smile after this week when in the non-emotional Vulcan's presence could be the stuff of psychological discourses for years to come. He cleared his throat and looked back after a moment. "I'm a little...impaired, Sir," Chekov reminded him by way of apology for both his tone and words.

"I have so noted, Ensign. I will attempt to make allowances: as is often necessary when dealing with Humans."

"Thank-you, Mr. Spock."

"Is it what you did as a child or the action's consequences that is currently troubling you, Mr. Chekov?"

"Is there a way of separating them?" he asked curiously. "I was 12," Chekov added as an afterthought. "Not really a child, I suppose."

"Do you wish to engage in a philosophical discussion or receive assistance in resolving an issue?" the older man asked abruptly.

The Navigator smiled slightly again. If you want to get yelled at effectively, Mr. Spock is the one to do it. He reminds me of my father. "What I did was no childhood prank and it has been discovered by the government. They don't know it was me. It is my father that is facing the consequences of my actions."

He stopped then. Anyone else would have goaded him on, but Spock merely waited. Chekov didn't know what was easier to deal with. He shook his head dismally. "The solution seems easy: I should just confess and take responsibility for what I did."

The First Officer nodded solemnly, but his eyes narrowed in interest. "If such a choice were 'easy' you would not be so obviously troubled, Mr. Chekov."

"So true," he answered a bit too flippantly.

"Such a choice would have an impact on your Starfleet career, would it not?"

"Yes," he agreed. "But that's not even a consideration. Mr. Spock, if I come forward with what I did than it will ultimately reveal things about the government of the Russian Federation that will make it look exceptionally bad to the entire universe."

The Science Officer considered the problem in silence for a moment. "Ensign," he drew out finally. "At this point, I am prompted to remind you of the childhood history game which you were fond of playing and which you have shared with certain members of the crew."

Chekov eyed Spock, scowling in confusion. "Game, Sir?"

"Indeed. If I recall correctly the main version is called 'Tsar'."

"Oh...yes," the younger man conceded. "The men that work for my father made it up for me."

Spock nodded in agreement. "If I recall accurately, during the course of play the competitors are challenged with negative history facts concerning the country of Russia. One must counter with positive events in the same field to gain points and advance."

"They made me versions for every Terran country," Chekov tried to divert him. "My mother believes interactive learning is more effective."

The Science Officer didn't respond. It wasn't the first time in his experience that Chekov wished he would. Uhura had embarrassed him by realizing there was no rule in the game against making up positive facts. Unlike Scrabble, there was no way to verify them easily and no one who designed it had thought it was a necessary option. Until they started playing it with Pavel.

Spock hadn't brought up the game to embarrass the Navigator with how he had picked up personality quirks, however. Chekov understood exactly what the Science Officer was attempting to remind him of. He sighed and shrugged dismally in agreement with the older man. "Russia has certainly had more than its share of horrible things its governments have done during its history: there's no denying it. When they've been revealed the country has managed to weather it and the Russian Federation is now a respected and strong country in the United Earth Alliance," he conceded.

"The Russian Federation's mistakes are not unique: in fact, they are common in the history of the Earth's nations."

Chekov's hands tightened into fists of frustration as his lips pressed hard against themselves. "Governments are different now," he insisted darkly. "This is the 23rd century. They're supposed to...pay attention. And this time, it's different, Sir."

"Because you will have caused their folly to be revealed," the First Officer surmised with sharp honesty. "That concern relies on an extraordinarily presumptive ego, Mr. Chekov."

The young man pushed himself fully up in the chair, staring at Spock. He realized that is what he'd been thinking, but it wasn't truly what bothered him. Chekov wasn't sure it could be explained...especially to someone for whom emotion was an illogical consideration.

"Sir," he began carefully. "That what I did went unnoticed for so long is embarrassing for the government. What they did to inspire my actions, however, is downright...humiliating." Chekov's voice faltered and he winced: struggling to continue. "It's every Russian citizen who's going to have to live with that humiliation, Mr. Spock. It's enough that a few of us are mortified by their actions...it's simply not acceptable to publicize such a thing and burden everyone with that guilt."

Spock considered him tolerantly. "I do not understand why any citizen would feel responsibility for a government's specific actions if they had no actual part of such action."

"You..." wouldn't. Chekov managed to choke down his instant, vile reaction. "It's a Hum...Russian thing," he finally said tightly. "It's unacceptable to broadcast such information and we...don't do such things to our people."

The Science Officer didn't respond immediately. He didn't need to: Chekov knew what he was thinking. It was what any sane man would be thinking. Such an attitude was vulgar and primitive: downright barbaric. Such an attitude wasn't unique to Russia in the past, and it was responsible for massive amounts of Earth's worst history. They had moved beyond that.

"Your nationalism is clouding your thinking, Ensign," was what Spock finally observed.

"I am not nationalistic," Chekov retorted, both the alcohol and indignation slurring his words. "I'm patriotic."

"Nationalism..."

"Is the hatred of other nations. Patriotism is the love of your own. There's a big difference."

Spock pressed his lips together. "Despite my error in semantics, Mr. Chekov, your concern for a political body's dignity is both illogical and ill-placed."

The Navigator sighed tiredly, letting his eyes slip closed again. He blinked them open quickly when the room began moving in alarming patterns. "Sir, for some people in Russia their governing body's actions are a still a reflection on them," he managed tonelessly.

"Illogical."

"I'm sure it is."

The First Officer's gaze remained steady, unblinking on the younger man. "Ensign," he informed him patiently after a moment. "If taking responsibility for your actions will result in outcomes that are unacceptable to you, than you must consider what options you have which do not involve your taking responsibility for your actions."

Chekov nodded somberly. "If I don't come forward than my father..." His voice broke off and he remained silent a long moment. "It's very bad, Sir."

"Since the outcome of your choice appears to affect your father's life, it would be logical to seek his counsel in this matter."

"Yup, it would."

Chekov saw Spock's raised eyebrow on the edge of his peripheral vision. He had to admit, the older man was displaying an enormous degree of tolerance for the Navigator's lack of sobriety. He swallowed with difficulty. "Mr. Spock, my father is currently not available to be communicated with."

Sitting there with the Science Officer's unblinking stare on him, Chekov had the unreasonable thought that the man actually attempted to read his thoughts on such occasions. Boy, I am impaired, he chastised himself as he stirred in his seat. Spock just won't do the decent thing and jump to conclusions.

"My father's in jail, Mr. Spock."

The Commander didn't act as if it was unexpected information, but he folded his arms across his chest in a sure sign that he was tiring of being tolerant. "Andrie Chekov's incarceration would not prohibit his communication with you," he intoned. "If you are unable to obtain the clearances, I can be of assistance."

The snort burst out of the Navigator before he could stop it. Straightening again, he cleared his throat by way of apology. He still groaned melodramatically when he tried to answer. "Spock, it ain't that kind of jail."

The Vulcan's obvious scowl prompted Chekov to look over at him finally. He winced in another apology. "This isn't about a petty crime, Sir. My father is in isolation and is prohibited from communication with anyone at this point in time."

"That is contrary to Federation law, Ensign."

Chekov stilled and raised dark, depthless eyes to meet the older man's steady gaze. "Not in this case, Mr. Spock. And the penalties still required are..." unthinkable...

"If you take action," the Commander surmised. "The consequences for the government and peoples of the Russian Federation are unacceptable. If you fail to take action, the consequences Andrie Chekov faces are unacceptable. In each case, what are the consequences that you personally face?"

"Not a mitigating factor." He shrugged slightly at the older man's level stare. "The same either way, Sir." My Starfleet career is over... The young man's gaze didn't move from the First Officer's eyes. "I told you there was no logical solution to this problem."

Spock's lips drew into a fine line again. After a moment, he lowered his hands and stood up from the chair. "Mr. Chekov, you are basing your conclusion on a faulty axiom."

"What's that, Sir?" he asked, lines of confusion skirting out from his eyes.

"That the logical solution has a pleasant outcome.

"In addition, Mr. Chekov," Spock added, pausing as he turned to leave. "It is my experience that you routinely overestimate both the seriousness and consequences of your actions. It would be advisable that you spend time reevaluating your entire line of reasoning. Without the aid of alcohol."