Chapter 6

Driven by an unquiet mind, Pavel Chekov trolled his Starfleet bedroom. His cabin surroundings were askew...but the discordant shriek along his spine was not caused by the changes he saw. There was a relentless presence that filled the cabin: an insistent, demanding irritant.

He strode to the room divider and made a stance there. "I'm very sorry."

Sulu seemed as unimpressed with the declaration as he did the last twelve times. He sat casually at the desk, legs crossed, his hand tapping a small leather booklet absently against his thigh. He stared back at Chekov with silent, somber patience.

The younger man felt his resolve deflate. It was difficult to be righteously penitent when the other party was steadfast that there was no wrong to begin with. He moved carefully into the living area, navigating the maze of papers on the floor until he was level with the Helmsman. "You're a member of my family. You had the right to know what was going on."

It was a simple, declarative statement: an acknowledgment of fact. When the Academy had randomly thrown them together as roommates they couldn't have predicted what a blinding success it would be. The two men had not the same temperament, came together without shared interests, had life experiences that were as far apart as the galaxy is wide...and yet they had immediately recognized in each other a kindred spirit.

Big Brother: Little Brother. It was, after all, the definition the Academy had given the relationship. The point was to give every new student an upperclassman to mentor them. But it suited these two far better than was ever expected of these arrangements. The Japanese American with overly critical and distant parents had seamlessly, and willingly, been sucked into the overly supportive and demonstrative family of the younger man. The military service often made family out of strangers, and Chekov could imagine no one that actually shared his blood feeling more like a brother to him than this man.

Of course, if they were brothers, Chekov would have belted Sulu to wipe that ridiculous amusement off his face. His jaw hardened at the inability to carry through on the thought.

Sulu snickered: as if he heard the thought. "An entire week of you acting like a surly asshole and I never once asked you why," was what he pointed out.

Cold horror dropped into the pit of Chekov's soul as the truth of Sulu's words settled on him. He'd been so utterly consumed with anger and self-pity that he'd never even noticed his best friend hadn't been the slightest interested in finding out what was bothering him. Sulu had just waited for the younger man to come out of his self-pity enough to realize there were other people in the universe. And it wasn't just 12 apologies he'd waited through: it was eight days of him acting like a surly child he'd waited through.

"How did you know?"

Sulu's dark eyes just fixed on him. Like Spock's, they seemed to be gauging how stupid Chekov was.

The younger man felt his soul sink. Of course his mother had spoken to Sulu.

"You're not the only son your mother has on this ship," the other man confirmed.

"How much did she tell you?"

"Only that he was under investigation. It was just the once." He smiled easily then. "She knew you'd keep me up to date."

Chekov set his jaw against the man's scrutiny. He was facing his utter failure as a friend, much less as a brother: which is what Sulu was pointing out to him with that shitty grin.

"I should have told you he'd been arrested...that he was locked up like some animal."

"You should have," Sulu agreed, shifting his eyes to the leather booklet in his hands.

"And I should have told you they found out that some of the money Papa is responsible for is not going where it belongs."

Sulu thumbed through the leather booklet absently. The silence stretched on.

"Are you not even going to ask why?"

"I'm sure you did it for a very good reason."

"I..." Chekov stopped. Sulu raised his eyes to him again: his regard downright condescending.

The Navigators shoulders sank, his last attempt at pretense deflated. Of course the man knew it was Pavel that had engineered the computer meddling Andrie was accused of. Sulu actually was part of the family and knew it simply wasn't something the man was capable of.

Chekov sat down heavily in the chair on the other side of the desk.

"What's important here is why your father asked you to do this. Not who - but why," Sulu pressed. "This wasn't a practical joke."

Chekov's insides were frozen. He dropped his eyes to his legs and scratched at a non-existent piece of lint. "No," he said tersely. "If the reason my father did this comes out it will embarrass the Russian government and all the Russian people."

He kept his eyes fixed on his legs but he could still feel Sulu's eyes boring into him - unwavering.

"Wow," the older man marveled. "That's some ego. You're solely in charge of protecting the Russian Federation and all her people."

"You're the second person who's said that to me."

"Maybe you should listen," the Helmsman suggested. "Who," he continued pointedly, "put YOU in charge of Russian pride?"

Chekov's head snapped up and he sent a piercing warning glare at the other man. It had no effect.

"Who put YOU in charge of ensuring that Russian pride is unblemished and everyone feels good about themselves?" Sulu demanded. He waved the leather booklet in the air. "This?" he asked. "Is it written in here that you're responsible for everyone's pride?"

Chekov vaulted to his feet and lurched for the booklet. "Give me that! What are you doing with that?"

Sulu yanked it out of his reach. "It was on the desk," he said. "You had it out." He twisted it away from Chekov's grasping hands. He thumbed through the pages. "It's in here? That you're responsible for everyone feeling good about their country?"

Chekov stopped the attempt to grab it and just stood there, seething. "You know..."

"That's exactly what this says," Sulu concluded with finality.

The words stopped Chekov in his track. "You know damn well that's..."

"Your passport from the Historic District," Sulu agreed. "And it says that you're responsible for making sure everyone feels good about Russia."

Chekov's jaw hardened and he glared at Sulu tersely.

It was the internal passport every citizen of the Russian National Historic Districts was required to have. What it said was the result of long, deep conversations between all the adults that cared about him. The villagers in his village. The sailors on his father's ship. And the consensus of them all was the best place for the good of the universe, the best place for his own good for him was...

"The Enterprise?" Sulu asked in astonishment. "Not Starfleet? Specifically the Enterprise?" He had the passport open.

"You read Russian now?" Chekov rasped thickly.

Sulu turned the passport around and pointed inside it. "I read 'Enterprise'."

Chekov yanked it out of his hands.

An anachronistic document, the internal passport signaled two things to the person who owned it: that there was a community of people who cared about your well-being and happiness, and that there was a community of people whose well-being and happiness you were an intricate part of. His actions DID affect each and every one of them. His fingers stroked the leather like it was part of his skin.

"That passport says that you're responsible for making sure everyone feels good." Sulu scoffed. "It's ridiculous. And, yes, I'm judging your culture. Communism is insane."

The words stunned Chekov, stinging his face and soul. "I can't believe you, of all people, would say that."

When Chekov was still at the Academy and Sulu had already graduated and earned his commission he'd gone 'home' - to Chekov's family house and village. Chekov still didn't know what had happened - Sulu hadn't offered and Chekov hadn't asked. He had no idea if it was his parents, the sailors, the villagers - all of them - but Sulu had come back a different man: finally self-assured and with a firm grip on his self-confidence.

"Centuries of Russian history has proven that communism works," Chekov snarled. It worked so well, villages living in 19th century communes had been willing to fight for the right to continue on in the 19th century rather than to modernize and lose their community. "And not just Russia: there are communist communities all over Earth. Israel. Scotland. Africa. Native Americans. Native...all over the galaxy." He was babbling at this point: seized by an impulsive need to establish the merits out loud.

Sulu watched him silently as he ranted on.

"It is only when the community gets too big that it doesn't work," he said, accent getting thicker as he spoke. "Too many people and it - implodes. More than 500 and people aren't taking care of each other any longer. You aren't worried about making sure Ivan's grandson is doing well in school because you don't even know Ivan. You're just focused on your own selfish, individual needs."

"Communism with the 'Big C' doesn't work," Sulu concluded. "Someone should have told Stalin that."

Chekov's eyes snapped over to the older man: and froze at the look of self-satisfaction on his face. He'd been baiting him.

"So," the older man continued. "You're not actually responsible for making sure ALL of the people of Russia feel good about their government." He dropped his foot to the floor and sighed. "That's a good thing – because people in the 23rd century: they don't have any personal pride in their government. They kind of expect the government to screw up occasionally.

"Not like the actual communal...communities," he continued broadly. "I mean, the people of the Russian National Historic Districts: THEY have a personal investment in the government. They have pride: they know the government doesn't make horrific mistakes."

Chekov lurched out of his chair and strode toward the door - not even caring as he ripped and scattered the papers on the floor with his boots. It was a definitive sign for Sulu to shut up.

The Russian government had been embarrassed there were still peasant communities in their country, and they had tried to wipe the villages and their culture off the face of the Earth. Chekov didn't need to be reminded of the day Starfleet had fought hand-to-hand against peasants with swords and fists – and lost. The Russian Federation's current proud boast of their "innovative", "pioneering", "living history laboratories" was nothing more than a scramble to hide the truth and take ownership of pride that didn't belong to them.

"The people of the Historic Districts don't have any pride in the Russian government to protect," Sulu finished Chekov's thoughts at the exact right time – as if he could hear them. "The 23rd century population doesn't have any pride to protect. So, who," he asked, "Are you protecting?"

Chekov stood, his eyes staring, unseeing, at the door.

Andrie Nikolaievich had stood in the way of those Starfleet troops, blocking the road into the village. They had beat him down – with fists, with phaser rifle butts – and he stood up again, and again: until he was unconscious. When his father had fallen for the last time Pavel, himself, had run and took his place protecting the village – and his father's limp body.

It took very little effort to knock a 3-year-old unconscious.

Turning, Chekov's gaze sought out his Big Brother's.

The man's dark eyes were as warm as his reasoning was flawless. "You aren't trying to protect the people or the government," Sulu said then. "It's your father you're trying to protect."

The truth shuddered through the Navigator's chest. Not advertising to the universe the current Russian government's shortcomings weighed heavily on his mind, but focusing an investigative light on his father would bring out facts that had been diligently hidden for years, and risk a carefully maintained facade that had been built around him. Why did Andrie ask a 12-year-old to set this up?

Sulu leaned forward, balancing his elbows on the desk and his chin on top of his folded hands. "Just tell me one thing," he asked. "When did your father ask for your protection? When," he drawled elaborately, "Exactly, did Andrie ask for anyone's protection?"

The 'family' - including the sailors that worked for the man and the local villagers – in a unanimous, unspoken pact, protected Andrie's image. It was an act of unwavering devotion that presented the world the crisp, starched white, pristine, stalwart pillar of strength that unflinchingly ruled his world.

It was so ingrained in every one of them that the question confused Chekov. "You love my father as much as I do," was what he finally said aloud.

"Probably more."

Chekov's instant glare was met with the same maddening, superior look.

"I have my father to compare him to, after all." Sulu dropped his hands and leaned back. "I just don't see how pretending he's a different person than he is…is an act of love."

The Navigator was frozen in place. The idea that the illusion they created around Andrie was anything but a brilliant act of devotion was bizarre and preposterous.

"Papa doesn't care," Sulu continued. "If he had his way…" he hesitated for a minute, then gestured futilely. "He just doesn't care."

Chekov stared at him. There simply was no argument against the truth. Andrie put up with their fussing over him like a tolerant toddler, but had never moved in opinion one millimeter closer to caring about what they did. He was perfectly happy with his messy hair, muddy boots…disheveled peasant shirt.

"People would..."

"Like him more?" Sulu suggested. "Who are you worried about being embarrassed: him...or you?"

His 'Big Brother' just wasn't going to let it drop. Chekov moved over and let himself sink into the chair opposite Sulu.

As expected, he continued. "Here's a hint: it's not him."

"I am not embarrassed," Chekov answered instantly. "I just..."

"Want to protect him," Sulu finished with a slight, affectionate smile.

Chekov sighed heavily, absently flipping through the pages of the passport he still held.

"It might do the world good for people to know you can run a huge military organization in the 23rd century without the use of computers," Sulu postulated.

"We know that is not true," he answered grimly, without looking up at the other man. Andrie didn't need computers...he delegated. But computers were still a vital necessity. Or no one got paid, Chekov thought.

"And it's not a military organization." The phrase came out of him like an instant, programmed computer response. There was no marching, no salutes. The guns the sailors sometime carried in parades had no firing pins and no working triggers – they were toys. The cannons on the ships did function – but there certainly wasn't anything for them to fire at beyond their educational displays.

Andrie never would have been involved in a military organization.

And that was something that was being hidden from the public by the family, Chekov realized with newfound clarity. Why? he wondered. Why hide something so profoundly fundamental that they loved so much about Andrie? Did the reason for the personality trait matter?

"Are they going to find out it was you?" Sulu's voice interrupted his thoughts.

His eyes glanced over to meet his friend's briefly. He only shrugged in response, but the guilt washed over him in a wave. There was still so much that Sulu didn't understand about the situation…

Apologizing for not confiding in Sulu had only lightened the burden enough so that Chekov could relate to him like a Human again instead of a penultimate asshole. But he wasn't ready for more – wasn't ready to make it all real and have to face the truth. Unlike Spock, Sulu wouldn't wax philosophical: he would pin his friend to the cold, hard facts like a target on a dart board.

Sulu, in fact, was the only real friend he had. Yes, of course, he'd had plenty of 'friends' throughout his life: children he'd played with, bonds with people that revolved back into his life in cycles as he traveled with his parents. In Chekov's estimation, however, they were not friends. They were merely pleasant people he'd come to care about and shared time with.

This man was different. Sulu had immediately known that it wasn't real: that "Pavel Chekov" was an act. Whether it was because of the innate bond they somehow shared immediately, or that Sulu just read people extremely well, Chekov didn't know. But the older man had never accepted the act and had never let him get away with being, well, precious.

He was suddenly aware that Sulu was staring at him. Sitting, waiting: the silence between them edged with an unspoken truth.

And it wasn't Chekov's.

"What?" the navigator demanded as he looked up at him.

Sulu's eyes widened slightly, acting as if it were a surprise the younger man could sense his thoughts: as if it didn't happen constantly.

"Koshka…." Chekov prompted him with his Russian nickname: as if that would egg him on.

The Helmsman scowled at him in response.

Setting his shoulders in defeat, Chekov sat there, just staring at him. While Sulu needed to demonstrate that he saw through the attempted manipulation and was unaffected by it – he still clearly had something on his mind. Chekov could wait.

So could Sulu.

They sat there staring at each other for a long time. A ridiculously long time.

It was Chekov who finally gave in to the ridiculousness of it and moved to get up. Sulu's voice stopped him.

"You aren't special. I know the galaxy spent your whole life telling you that you are, but you're not."

Chekov blinked hard: stunned by the declaration that seemed to come out of nowhere.

Sulu shifted uncomfortably at the hurt he saw. "Different," the Helmsman corrected. "I meant you're not different."

It didn't make the statement any more understandable to the younger man.

"You're Andriech in public," Sulu explained patiently. "You're Pavel Andrievich to your friends and family: Pasha or Malyenki to those who love you. Pavel Chekov in Starfleet. And you're – freaking out," he chose the extreme description purposefully, "because people on the ship are finding out about 'Andriech' and you think they're going to be shocked to find out he exists."

Having his friend detail out the insanity of his life was sobering. "Mr. Spock said they will feel betrayed," he said quietly.

"Well, Spock's a Vulcan. And he's wrong. You're not different than every other Human," Sulu repeated. "Everyone has a half dozen personalities."

"I don't think that is true."

"Really? Do you think 'Captain Kirk on the bridge dealing with Klingons' is the same person he is on leave with his friends?" he asked. "Every Human has different sides of themselves they show based on where they are. The person that lives at home isn't the same one that's with their friends, the one at school, the one with their grandparents…."

The hope that sparked in Chekov just weighed the darkness in his soul down heavier. "I think having different names for each personality puts it on a special level of sociopath."

Sulu fixed him with a look that said his patience was nearing an end. "'Captain Kirk' to Starfleet," he recited. "'Jim' to his friends. 'Jimmy' to his family. Probably… 'Sport' to his brother. You think this is a unique trait of yours," he continued. "But it's not. The crew will completely understand: because any of them could be there too."

Chekov became intensely aware of how self-centered and blindly naïve he was, in fact, and wondered how anyone put up with him.

Sulu glared at him, knowing instantly his train of thought. "Don't go there."

Chekov dropped his eyes, morosely studying the passport again. How Sulu thought his pointing out the faults of his personality didn't just make them worse was beyond him.

"Yeah, it's going to be uncomfortable for a bit that Pavel Chekov's circle suddenly know about Andriech. Especially," Sulu continued evenly, ignoring his friend's mood, "since Andriech is a celebrity on Earth and they're going to have all kinds of information at their disposal."

He stopped Chekov's protest again. "You're a celebrity on Earth," he ended any argument with his definitive statement, "whether you like it or not. Andriech grew up in front of cameras, so they're going to have plenty to watch. But in a month...or two...something else is going to catch their attention and it'll be back to...almost...normal."

Chekov eyed him dubiously.

"You're just the flavor of the month," Sulu assured him.

The idea of being 'Andriech' again brought a blackness sinking into his soul. He sighed heavily. "I can't go back to smiling all the time."

"Why don't you start with once a month and we'll go from there," Sulu quipped as he stood up. He pulled the passport from between Chekov's fingers and went into the other room to put it back in the safe.

That he was refusing to acknowledge the younger man's continued, surly mood made it deepen.

Because he actually does think he's fixed this… and Chekov wasn't prepared to tell him more. "I think I am going to call Brenda," he finally said.

Whatever Sulu was continuing to do in the other room, he didn't come back into the room Chekov was in. "Landon's roommate?" he asked from beyond the room divider.

"Yes. She is still…begging. I need a one-night stand," he added.

The explosive laughter that came from the other room brought Chekov to his feet in indignation. He glared hard at his friend when he appeared and leaned his shoulder on the room divider.

"Very few Humans are actually wired for the mythological anonymous, meaningless physical intimacy," Sulu explained. "And you, my friend, are definitely not one of them."

Chekov shifted defiantly. "You don't know that."

The laughter was loud and deep. "You've had TWO 'one-night stands'," Sulu insisted. "Now you have one woman that follows you around the galaxy and one woman who signs you up for conferences hoping you'll be close enough to show up for them."

Chekov glowered at him. The fact that the man knew him so well lessened the misery slightly – because Sulu knew he was changing the subject, and he was letting him. For now.

"You're just stressed and need relief," Sulu continued chatting amiably, as if Chekov's life wasn't falling apart at their feet. "What you actually need - want - is to be 'naughty'."

He'd lived with the man long enough that he knew this pattern intimately. When the stress had built to volcano level, Chekov predictably lashed out with a predictably 'evil' action. As 'evil' as one could get when followed around by cameras and a community watching every move. Sulu eyed the man affectionately. "When we get home, we'll bring my car out and you can drive around at 250 miles per hour."

And here they were again, Chekov thought. Just fri…brothers. His eyes fell to the twisted papers on the floor and he began adjusting their position back to where they belonged with his foot. "I bought you a Corvette," he said. "Not a Formula 1." He purposely ignored the bait Sulu dropped about an inevitable trip home soon.

"Still 125 miles an hour faster than you promised your mother. She'll have an aneurysm," Sulu warned: but he wasn't actually considering her. "It'll be glorious," he marveled, a smile toying over his face as he watched his suggestion ruminating behind Chekov's eyes. It should have been quickly dismissed: but there it was, invading every thought process.

"F1s don't even go that fast." Chekov said it aloud, but he was talking to himself as he continued to right the papers. "Indy cars: they got close in trial runs. Not in races," he mused, "but in trials."

"I'd like to try with a GT350."

Chekov turned back to him curiously. "You want a Shelby Cobra?"

Sulu snorted in derision, as if there were any question.

The lines deepened on Chekov's forehead as he considered it. They may have begun with no mutual interests beyond the fleet: but one ride in Chekov's automobile had changed that. Even if it did only go 45mph - downhill. With a wild wind pushing it.

Sulu had become the welcome repository of cars that violated Chekov's promise to his mother after he'd crashed a motorcycle in a reckless - and thoroughly satisfying - jump. Shelby Cobra's weren't a rare automobile model in the late 23rd century, but he'd need to find one that wasn't part of a museum exhibit... one owned by a grandfather that had been sitting collecting dust in a garage. "No racing stripes," he muttered aloud to himself as he went back to straightening the papers on the floor. "Hate that" ... unless it had actually been a race car.

Now wouldn't THAT be glorious.

"The United States is where to find one," he mused. "Maybe France: if one got left after a Le Mans…"

Chekov glanced back as he caught an image of the self-satisfaction in the Helmsman's eyes. It wasn't because he thought Chekov was buying him another automobile.

"You didn't fix my problems!" he snarled at him.

A wide grin spread over Sulu's face. "No, I just fixed ours."

Chekov glowered at him: but he couldn't deny the man was right. Sulu had baited Chekov through a long and peppered minefield until he'd come back into someone that could interact with his crew mates again. Who exactly that was, was yet to be determined - but the Helmsman had been effective where the discussions with Spock were not. Which made perfect sense: because Spock didn't know Pavel Andrieivich.

Pavel Andrieivich was found in the sanctuary of his home in Russia, on his father's ship - and in the 'Helm Suite' on the Enterprise in Sulu's company. And Sulu had effectively found a way to turn Pavel Chekov back into someone who could be tolerated by the crew.

Big brothers are a pain in the ass.

Still grinning in victory, the Helmsman pushed himself away from the room divider and headed towards his own cabin.

"I am not a comedian!" Chekov shouted at his back as he disappeared into the bathroom.

"'Not an asshole' will do."

Chekov turned and his eyes fell back on the papers on the floor.

Not that it mattered. Not that any of this mattered...

The papers scattered about the floor were an omnipresent weight, nagging at him like a rotting tooth. He moved suddenly: pulling open a drawer and grabbed a pad of paper and a pen.

Sulu could only do so much.

He knew who he needed to talk to….