Chapter 9

Sulu started talking as soon as he heard the bathroom door open. "Sourdough is actual science," he began the long treatise he'd prepared for just this moment. "It takes patience, skill….."

He froze as he looked up from the magazine and found, not his helm mate, but the Slavic version of Barbie standing there.

"Oh." He recrossed his legs, dropped the magazine in his lap, and went back to reading.

"I'm hungry."

"Okay."

"I – I'm going to get something to eat."

"Mm-hm."

"It's just…" she sighed. "He's sleeping. So in case he wakes up and wonders where I am…you'll know."

This finally got Sulu to raise his dark eyes and regard her. "He hasn't 'slept' in a week."

"Well, he's sleeping now."

His eyes flitted from her to the bathroom door, but he resisted the urge to prove her a liar. He dropped his gaze to the magazine again, and held them there with ramrod steel force.

He was rewarded when he felt her moving toward the corridor door…but she hesitated.

"It's over," she said. "I thought you'd like to know."

"Thank you for not being loud," Sulu responded as he turned the page. Though there had been far more laughing than he'd expected.

She moved a step back toward him. "No, I mean….since my father knows now…."

He shifted, looking up at her through the tops of his eyes, understanding the implication. "Really."

She gestured her hands in the air as she sauntered towards him. "No point now."

He lifted his head then: fixing his eyes on her and studying her. Her perfectly formed arms…her legs…her bust…her hips…her big brown eyes…

He didn't know why he was staring at her. He wasn't going to believe her anyway.

Barbie. Short Barbie….Midge. Midge? No…Skipper?

With a sigh, he dropped his eyes to the magazine again. "Well, hallelujah."

"Just thought you'd like to know," she tossed back as she moved toward the door.

"Thank ya' ma'am."

She froze, talking to the door in front of her. "Look, I don't know about you: but I'm quite capable of acting like an adult, here, Hikaru."

"I know exactly what you're capable of," Sulu muttered to himself.

She spun and stormed back to him. "He wasn't a child. I didn't rape him!"

Finally, she had Sulu's attention: his eyes hard and accusatory.

"Look, I get that you're protective of him. But you must know I would never do anything to hurt him." Rage shone in her eyes, her jaw tight as she spat her words at him. "And after that first time, I never went back. Never. Not while he was a cadet."

Sulu had seen the look in her eyes in another's. 4 months ago.

He scowled at her. Hard. "I think you're forgetting I shared a dorm room with him for two years."

"I got calls…messages….notes." She made a broad, sweeping gesture as she recited the purported notes with high drama. " 'Did your father do anything to piss you off today?'"

Okay, Sulu waivered slightly. That did, indeed, sound like Chekov.

"Look," she suddenly spat at him. "We don't have to like each other!"

"To be fair," he commented as he went back to studying the magazine. "I don't like my own cousins. Why should I like Chekov's?"

"But you're going to have to accept that we both love him," she declared as she moved to leave.

Sulu shifted, clearing his throat and turned the page. "You 'love' him….and yet you're working for, and living with, the man who beat him unconscious," he muttered.

She froze at the door again. Turning, she paced back to him.

He instantly regretted having said it.

"He didn't tell me that," she said quietly. "Unconscious?"

He caved again: sighed and drew his head up to look her dead in the eye. "3 hours. You know what it's like to have a concussion and work on a starship…on computers?"

He saw her wilt internally. Later, he would think less of himself for having done in: but he went into the wound with gusto.

"Not a defensive wound on him," he stated matter-of-factly. "Would. Have. Been. Disrespectful. To. His. Uncle."

She shuddered visibly.

"How's that consulting firm you're working for look now?" he sneered.

"I don't work for my father anymore." The words came out in a rush, as if they'd not come out if there was any resistance. "I haven't spoken to my father since…."

Sulu's eyes narrowed. "Must make the living situation interesting."

"I'm staying," she bit out. "On friend's couches."

Sulu's breath came measured as he studied her. He didn't expect Barbie to be using such obvious ploys for sympathy. "There's no reason to be homeless," he said dimly. "This is the 23rd century: not 17th century Calcutta."

She stood silently, her breath coming ragged as their eyes locked on each other's. Finally, she steadied her shoulders.

"I'm afraid to settle in one place. Afraid…"

He leaned back then, reality settling on him with a sense of shame. "…that he'll find you," he concluded.

She nodded.

They stayed staring at each other for another long moment. While Chekov's cuts and bruises had healed, the revelation of their relationship had cost her much more permanent damage: the loss of her job, her home…her very family. He jerked his head in the direction of the bathroom.

"Does he know?"

"Oh, God, no." She shook her head tersely, fervently. "DON'T TELL HIM."

Well, there was that much he could agree with her on. In Chekov's current state, with his overzealous sense of morals - finding out he destroyed Sarah's life…. would kill him.

Simply nodding, he went back to looking at the magazine. But he stopped her when the door opened.

"Sarah."

He hesitated when she glanced back at him again: his fingers biting into the pages, creasing them inwards. He gestured behind himself, towards Chekov's cabin.

"I don't know how that…." ended. His hand curled into a fist and he forced it down on his leg. He didn't want to know anything about her relationship with Chekov. Nothing. He drew in a deep breath, straightened, and turned another page. His eyes stayed fixed to the page.

"But I've got a couch."

He sat there, frozen, until he heard the door shut. Then he threw the magazine in frustration and stood, striding into the bathroom. He hesitated at the other door as he spotted Chekov. He came back into his own cabin, grabbed the quilt off the bed, and went and tossed it on the half-naked navigator.

Sulu scooped the discarded pillow off the floor and laid it next to Chekov. Reflexively, the younger man wrapped his arms around it and pulled it against him, like a teddy bear – or a person. Burying his face into it: he smiled.

That satisfied Sulu that the man was asleep. Flat on his back: like a corpse.

It still unnerved Sulu, but he understood it. The Helmsman had once napped in Chekov's bunk aboard his father's ship – a rare treat on a shoreleave home. And he'd nearly dislocated his shoulder on the deck above when he'd tried to turn on his side in his sleep. They'd never lowered the bunk after Chekov had grown beyond childhood. And Chekov wouldn't let them – it would have reduced the storage below it.

So he slept, unmoving, flat on his back.

Like the dead.

Sulu nudged the chair back put his feet up on the desk, crossing his ankles. It was his way of stopping the urge to go mess up the quilt Chekov had just meticulously replaced on his bed. Not everything has to be perfect, kid. And, yet… It annoyed him that his eyes shifted briefly from the book in his lap to check that the quilt was on the bed properly. The young peasant woman that had made it for him had stitched a message into it that properly went up by his face. He'd never translated the stitching, but he highly doubted it was the "don't be a dick" that Chekov claimed it was.

A chuckle escaped him despite himself. Maybe I should switch quilts with Chekov.

Some babushka had made Chekov's. The young woman that had made his was…. probably married now, his brain finished the thought for him. He sighed slightly and turned the book's page. That's what happens when you're lucky if you get back home once a year.

The other man hesitated by the desk as he moved to leave. "Thank you for…. Sarah," he decided as the conclusion.

"I'm not a pimp," Sulu replied without raising his eyes. "All I did was let her into your cabin."

He remained staring at the pages of the book even though he'd stopped reading. Chekov shifted uncertainly - but didn't move. He accepted that the younger man wasn't going to leave and twisted his head just enough for their dark eyes to meet.

"We were just talking about how she follows you around the galaxy. She showed up: Spock let her aboard, I let her in your cabin."

"She..."

Sulu's gawaf immediately ended the protest, and he went back to looking at the book. Sulu knew the definition of "stalker" and knew that it described Sarah no matter how Chekov wanted to explain it away. She kept track of where the Enterprise and Chekov were, and if she could possibly arrange to be where he was likely to get shore leave, she did.

The Helmsman felt triumphant that, for once, the man stopped trying to argue the point and left the cabin. The bathroom door opened and closed again, but Sulu kept his eyes on the book in his hands even as Chekov approached the desk.

Out of his peripheral vision, he could see the pile of clothes Chekov carried. "Doing my laundry only counts as an apology if you put it away," he commented without looking at him. "Doing" was a nonsensical word. The ship automatically "did" the laundry. "Deliver" is what he was doing – what their Yeomans usually did.

He stretched his feet inside his boots and remained staring at the book. Time stretched on, but the younger man didn't make any move toward leaving - or understanding the least bit that Sulu's behavior was telling him he was weary of their friendship at the moment. Even best friends – even brothers – needed a break when they had access to each other 24/7. And the musical, tenor voice with a touch of magical accent Chekov was using made that need even greater.

Go away….

Sulu shifted his feet when the man didn't respond to the telepathic order. Chekov is unbelievably high maintenance, he growled silently. Well, not usually, his ultra protective brain argued instinctively, even with himself. Except, yes….

No one could relate to what this man is going through. To experience the privacy of a normal, everyday life - after having an entire life of virtually every movement watched and photographed - and then to have that suddenly ripped away again, with no hope of ever getting it back...

To be an anonymous officer in Starfleet, and then suddenly have it all ripped away…to be, again, a THING everyone knew instead of a person…

Chekov's voice stopped the internal argument. "This is not your laundry," he said as he carefully placed the pile of clothes on the desk. "These are for you."

Turning the page, Sulu glanced up at his visitor briefly: then at the clothes, which were apparently a gift. He finally dropped his feet to the floor, straightened, and looked squarely at the younger man for the first time. "Unless the party theme is 'come dressed as a Russian sailor', I'm not wearing that."

The neatly folded, white cotton clothing was immediately recognizable as a New Imperial Russian Sailor uniform: the same apparel worn by the kid on the "Cracker Jack" box – they were even called the "Cracker Jack uniform". Sulu found it hard to believe the even Chekov would suggest he wear it to whatever party or ship event Sulu hadn't heard about yet. Even if that was the theme. "Capris are not a good look for me," he added: wishing the conversation and Chekov away again.

"You don't have access to my funds."

The breath was ripped out of Sulu's chest. He could physically feel his face draining of blood as his brain frantically searched for a reason Chekov would have suddenly cut off his access. He found nothing.

Closing the book slowly, Sulu's eyes remained locked on Chekov's. "I apologize. I don't know how I overstepped, but…" it was bound to happen someday? Was that what he was actually going to say? That he was acknowledging that he was such a brainless, irresponsible spendthrift that it was inevitable that one day he'd – I don't know – buy a starship in his sleep with Chekov's funds?

To say that self-incriminating thought was disturbing was an understatement.

Chekov had been paying for Sulu's stuff since they met: that dinner and drinks on the first day of orientation that was supposed to be the 'Big Brother's' treat. Meals, drinks at the bar, books, trinkets, novelty t-shirts….Chekov always paid. I never ASKED Sulu excused himself mentally: it was always just taken care of already. Except on that first holiday trip to Russia together. Sulu didn't even remember what nonsense he wanted at that store: he just knew it would deplete his own funds too severely – so he asked Chekov to buy it for him. He had, of course, without a single bit of hesitation.

Then, Chekov – who had a blindingly bottomless access to funds - had set up a separate account for himself where Sulu was the co-signer. Chekov's funds: maintained as a slush for Sulu to spend from without having to ask. Chekov even deposited a monthly allowance for his friend's use. No matter how messy he was with his OWN accounts, with Chekov's funds he had access to – Sulu was neurotically careful.

His eyes remained fixed on the man. "I apologize," he repeated firmly. "I…"

Chekov stopped him with an upraised hand as he leaned over the desk. "You never had access to my funds." Pushing a data tape into the computer, he straightened.

Sulu stared at him dubiously so long that Chekov finally poked a finger at the viewer.

Resenting the order, Sulu nonetheless turned and twisted the computer viewscreen toward him. His eyes darted over the display a long moment, searching to make sense of it. It wasn't the financial account statement he'd expected to see…or a receipt for that starship.

"This is the organizational chart of the New Imperial Russian Navy."

"Yes. Just the top of it, " Chekov added needlessly.

Lines furrowed across Sulu's forehead as his eyes rested the screen. Andrie, Mariya, Pavel, and…

Sulu's dark eyes shifted to Chekov. "Why," he demanded tonelessly, "Is MY name on the organizational chart of N.I.R.N.?"

A slight wince was Chekov's only response to the other man using the Navy's acronym (which, in hindsight, Sulu found remarkable). Sulu glared at him. "WHY," he repeated. "is my name on here?"

"You are my Personal Protection Officer," Chekov blurted suddenly, the words coming out like a champagne bottle cork had just been popped.

Sulu rose slowly, straightening to his full height and squaring his shoulders. "I'm…."

A slight shrug was the way Chekov chose to repeat the information.

He stared at the face he knew so well: the face from all the Academy days, from endless shifts on the bridge...and he saw nothing but simplicity and truth. He looked from the face to the organizational chart and back again. The lines on the chart corroborated what Chekov had said.

"I am NOT," Sulu declared, "your bodyguard!"

The simplicity on Chekov's face was infuriating. "When we go on leave in Russia…."

"I push people out of the way because if I didn't we'd never get out of the station," Sulu interjected quickly. His mind had been racing, going over the circumstances that would have led to this elaborate joke on the part of his friend. "We'd never get out to the car if I didn't."

He dropped the book – loudly – on the desk, and waved whatever Chekov was about to say away. "Then I drive us home because if we used your Model A our entire leave would just be that car ride."

Chekov's eyes were huge, and amused momentarily at the shared knowledge of their car rides.

"I'm not going to give your mother a stroke by letting you pull up in the driver's seat of a car that can go 165 mph," Sulu spit out at him angrily.

Besides, I'd like to live through my leave. The man's mother had him to promise to not operate dangerous vehicles for a legitimate reason.

The Helmsman spun then and strode over to the shelf where he began making himself a pot of tea.

"Not your chauffeur, not your bodyguard," he concluded: dropping the ball of tea. It made a satisfying "plunk" in the water.

"You wear a red uniform…"

"Joke," he bit out tersely, pushing the top back on the kettle and turning it on. "I DID wear a red top the first time, and the news DID decide I was your 'bodyguard', and I DO continue to wear red…" because I think it's funny.

He stood there glaring at the kettle for adhering to the laws of physics.

The 'joke' didn't explain why they weren't wearing their actual uniforms to begin with. When they went on leave in Russia, Sulu always wore a red pullover shirt with a black mock turtleneck to beam down: Chekov wore a blue one. They weren't uniforms of any kind, and had no rank or insignia - they were just shirts that gave the illusion of being Starfleet uniforms to anyone not paying attention.

Sulu had decided that it would make it more difficult to find Chekov in Starfleet if no one had either their correct division, rank, or ship insignia. It was the same reason Sulu had spearheaded the restriction of facial recognition software in the Fleet and Academy to only those with top clearance. The same reason he alerted Chekov to any Russian Federation citizen coming aboard or at a shore leave location. The same reason he restricted Chekov from taking part in any news-worthy events that might end up with his image standing next to Kirk plastered all over the news. The people of the Russian Federation knew that he worked for Starfleet somewhere, but nothing else.

It made it so Sulu didn't have to worry about the random person visiting the ship being a hidden news reporter looking for the story of their lives: or a turning out to be a rabid woman believing if she ate a lock of Chekov's hair she'd birth 12 clones.

Good Gad Almighty. There wasn't much plausible deniability that Sulu had been acting as the younger man's bodyguard.

He shut off the kettle to stop the annoying roar of boiling water. "I'm just your big brother," he said quietly to the kettle.

"We didn't expect it," came the reply.

And how would they? Thought Sulu.

The sailors that Chekov thought were his actual brothers for an embarrassingly long part of his childhood lived crammed together in a remarkably small wooden sailing ship half the year. They lived in Chekov's parents' home the rest of the year: but an effort to give them all their own rooms had failed miserably. It just felt…wrong. So the "brothers" lived in a single, large basement room Sulu's brain insisted on referring to as "the barracks" even if everyone else called it the "fo'c'sle".

And when young Pavel announced plans to go play soccer, or shopping, or to a village party – well it sounded like a better activity to off-duty sailors than watching ants carry breadcrumbs to their hill. So a bunch of them went – Pavel and his 'brothers': 2 of them, 3 of them…half dozen. Even on his first dates: because dinner and a movie were better activities than, you know…ants. It never, ever even occurred to Pavel that he wouldn't want 4 of his 'big brothers' playing soccer with him and his friends or sitting behind him at the movies. And just by hanging out together the way brothers do, the sailors, in reality, created a bubble of safety around Pavel that absolutely no one realized either existed or was needed.

Until Pavel came home in his cadet uniform – with just a fellow cadet. Sulu felt his adrenaline spike at just the thought of the transit station. He could feel the crush of people that a visit to Russia entailed as he stared at the steam coming out of the kettle. Overpowering in the cities: still offensive in the villages. Children wanted to play with him, young people wanted him to entertain them, old people wanted to crush him in bear hugs. Chekov was a commodity at home.

He was still there: waiting while Sulu stared at the tea kettle and reasoned it out.

Sulu turned around, sighing as he leaned back against the shelf. "Since that first time? And that account – it's my monthly pay from the Navy?" Saying it out loud made his skin crawl. "I shall hold no allegiance…" It was a violation of their Starfleet oath.

Chekov simply nodded.

"You said it was your account. That it was my 'allowance'."

"I never did."

No, he didn't. Sulu didn't actually remember, but he was sure it was something more like "there'll be monthly deposits…." The man wouldn't outright lie: the Helmsman had just made massive assumptions.

Because why the hell would I think I'm getting paid by the Russian Navy?

"I'm probably not getting paid enough," he commented.

"Probably not."

Chekov shifted after a moment. "My father discussed it with you."

"We were laughing," Sulu remembered. "I thought it was a joke. I didn't think he was seriously discussing making me your 'official bodyguard'."

"And yet…."

Even without being given the assignment, Sulu had instinctively protected his 'Little Brother'. His eyes fell on the ridiculous sailor's uniform on the desk. "Do I have to wear that now when we're home?" he asked, irritated.

"It's not even yours," Chekov confessed with an elaborate shrug. "I just put a red ribbon on my hat. For the symbolism."

Red….Sulu groaned inwardly, knowing he'd started this joke to begin with by his damn shirt choice.

Chekov pointed to the kettle. "Aren't you…."

"I don't want tea." Sulu's eyes were still on the uniform. "It's been six years. Why tell me now?"

"The Captain…" he hesitated. "It's an old joke."

"Really?" Sulu asked sarcastically.

Their dark eyes met: and locked on each other's gaze steadily. He'd met this version of Chekov before: the steady, serious man without the lightness or humor, the man that was a presence in a room rather than brightening it. Sulu would rather hang out with any other version of the man – even the raging, irrational one.

But at least Chekov was reasonable and not unpleasant to be around now. The rest of the crew would appreciate that even if Sulu didn't.

"And you need to know the truth now."

It was clear that the "truth" Chekov was talking about wasn't Sulu's job as his bodyguard or the bank account.

"There's more?" Sulu's voice had an edge of exasperation.

Chekov just pointed to the computer screen again.

The Helmsman pushed himself away from the shelf and went back over to sit dutifully in front of the computer. He adjusted the display. "It's the organizational chart of the New Imperial Russian Navy," he pronounced.

Chekov simply nodded and pointed at the display again.

Growling under his breath, Sulu leaned forward to look at the display that hadn't changed: as if it wasn't plain as day…

His head snapped up suddenly. "Pavel: you're not listed as a Topman on your father's ship."

"Of course not: I am not there." The tone of his voice bordered on an accusation of idiocy.

"But that's what you do – for the Navy," Sulu insisted. "You're a Topman."

"They can't just leave a hole where I'm supposed to serve and be short-handed every time they go to furl a sail."

The idea of standing on a rope 100 feet in the air - in the pouring rain - fighting with hundreds of pounds of wet canvas, was mind-boggling to Sulu to begin with: but Chekov wasn't listed there any longer. His job as a teenager had been filled, and on the current organizational chart, he was only….

Sulu felt the temperature of the room drop 40 degrees.

It was the same thing Sulu had been looking at the entire time. Andrie, Mariya, Pavel.

It hadn't changed. It was right there. It was…. RIGHT. THERE.

"And it's time you knew the truth." Chekov's words echoed through Sulu's mind as he stared at the computer screen. The cold began deep: seeping upwards in a relentless coup.

Sulu stood slowly, methodically. He pulled his dark eyes from the computer viewscreen to level them at the ship's navigator. Chekov's face greyed, and he smiled thinly in acknowledgment of what Sulu now knew.

Chekov had been waiting for him to see - what he couldn't tell him. Because saying it out loud…

Sulu pivoted then: made his way out from behind the desk and strode deliberately into the other man's cabin. He felt his friend join him as he surveyed the chaos in the man's cabin: the papers scattered on the floor, the empty bottles. He stood poised in its center - twisting one way, then the other - and his eyes swept over the chaos.

Only it wasn't chaos, and he saw that now. In the corner, yes, were discards of papers and bottles: but strewn around the cabin were working piles held down by bottles as paperweights in a private code of up and down. Stretching across to the far wall was connected paper, jutting down in spears into the cabin that roughly imitated the flattened globe of Earth. The bottles across it were ships in their place on what was a printed organizational chart of the Russian Navy. He shifted his feet backwards when he realized he was standing in the midst of the African continent.

"This is the organizational chart of the Navy," he confirmed aloud needlessly.

"Yes."

The sheet of ice sliced through his soul. Sulu's eyes shifted again to the top of the chart - where a mere two admirals' names hovered. Bureaucratic departments jutted sideways - but the hundreds of ships standing upright about the cabin reported directly to those two admirals without any hindrance of middle-man officers.

Andrie, Mariya, Pavel…. hundreds of ships spread out on the imaginary flattened globe of Earth.

"Pavel Andrieivich," Sulu bit out, his voice thick with accusation. "There are only TWO admirals in the Navy: your father and YOU. You're second in command of the Russian Navy!"

Chekov recoiled, genuine shock on his face. "I am not second in command!" he protested. "I just do the computer work." The tone was insistent. He believed it.

"The computer work," Sulu repeated preposterously. "You mean…everything." Contracts, accounts, personnel, payroll – the list was mindboggling.

The younger man just shrugged in agreement.

Sulu's eyes fell to the organizational chart again. He'd been told – they'd all been told – that Pavel had left the Navy: that he'd cut his hair to show the separation. The ponytails and braids were as much a sign of proud belongings as the telnyashkas were.

But it was a lie. Pavel Chekov had never left the Russian Navy. He'd been quietly helping his father run it, and his place doing that had been reflected by a change in rank and place in the organizational chart. He just wasn't responsible for furling sails any longer.

Sulu shook his head slowly. "Everything he did to make sure you could join Starfleet if you wanted…" None of it had been easy: ensuring a Russian peasant sailor boy had the right training, the best advantages: space camps, pilot's lessons, Space Scouts, internships in Space City, groveling to a man that hated him… "all the time knowing you were never going to leave the Navy!"

"I did leave!" Chekov retorted. "I'm here!"

"But you didn't leave. You're. Right. There," Sulu insisted, pushing his hand toward the chart on the floor. "STILL in the Navy. You didn't leave - you got promoted to…Admiral!" He swung around and gestured to his own cabin. "That's not even your uniform in there! Officers don't wear Cracker Jack uniforms!"

His mind was racing even as he said it. Do the officers wear sailor uniforms? No, he confirmed to himself – he'd seen other people wearing the same kind of jacket Andrie did...and long pants. It's so damn hard to tell: everyone just seemed to be in the striped shirts all the time.

Truth be told, Sulu knew, if Mariya hadn't re-instituted the uniforms, no one would be calling this a 'Navy'. More like pirate ships than the military, the crew followed the leadership of their superiors because they respected them: not because they were required to. There was absolutely no military decorum in NIRN: no salutes, no coming to attention as officers approached. Off-duty it was impossible to even identify the officers among the groups of socializing men. That included Andrie, who was often found swapping stories and drinks in the midst of his men. This wasn't the military. This was a family.

They stood there, their eyes locked in challenge.

"My father didn't plan for this."

Sulu's eyes softened. "Lack of intention doesn't change anything. You're still in the Navy."

Chekov gestured at the papers scattered across the floor. "He didn't plan for any of this."

Sulu's eyes softened and he followed Chekov's gesture with his gaze. Of course he hadn't.

Andrie had set about fixing a sailing ship so he could follow the stars call out onto the seas: finding people who still had the required skills passed down from their grandfather so he could follow the stars call out onto the seas. He had written down the songs and stories that ignited something deep in his soul that he couldn't bear be lost.

It had never occurred to Andrie that there were other people who heard the relentless call to sail the oceans. He didn't realize that everyone had the voices of their ancestors deep in their souls: they just weren't listening. Andrie hadn't planned that the fire that consumed him would ignite wild bonfires wherever he went.

No, thought Sulu as he surveyed the room: Andrie hadn't planned for any of this.

"He needs you," Sulu admitted. "Needs someone good on computers."

"I'm not in the Chain of Command…" Chekov' assured him: but there was a catch in his voice as he said it. The deathly hallow to the voice made Sulu glance sharply at his friend. The eyes staring at him were expectant…and exhausted. The bone-weary, all-encompassing exhaustion of the dead. The exhaustion that sleep didn't help.

Sulu began to reply but hesitated, his brows knitting as he stared at the expanse of papers. Not in the chain of command… the words repeated in his mind.

"There's NO ONE in the Chain of Command," Sulu blurted suddenly, eyes darting over to Chekov. "Your father is directly in control of all of this. The ship's captains, the museum directors, the project managers…" (there were 'ships' that couldn't rightly be called 'ships' yet.) "All of them report directly to your father!"

Chekov winced slightly and shrugged in response.

"This is insane."

Another shrug of agreement was all he got.

"How does he do this," Sulu rushed on. How did Andrie have time to research…anything? Sulu's brain interjected instantly. How was it Humanly possible that every single ship and museum reported directly to the CIC? Even if he COULD work on a computer, Andrie wouldn't have had the time with everything else the Navy required of him.

"One man…." He froze as his eyes came to rest on the top of the organizational chart. He stared at it: motionless, and he felt the blood draining out of his face and his body – sinking into the floor beneath his feet. "Pavel," he said breathlessly.

"We have been talking about adding Fleet Captains and Commodores and Admirals," he said in a rush. "I haven't gotten around to it yet."

"Didn't get around to it?" Sulu repeated. "What…were you too busy, I don't know…navigating a starship? RUNNING the navigation department of a starship?" he corrected. It was practically unheard of for an Ensign to head a department on a ship. But Chekov had earned it…a thousand-fold. And he was good at it.

"First, we were working on the bureaucrats: procurement and logistics…someone else is in charge of finding the Live Oak and other wood we need to fix the ships now."

If it was supposed to reassure Sulu, it didn't. It was meaningless. What Sulu didn't want to see was eating at the back of his brain, nagging him. Something unmistakable….and unacceptable. An overpowering, heavy weight filled the empty space in the cabin. His heart stopped beating. He dragged his eyes from the readout up to his friend's face and their dark eyes met. The cold had embraced his entire limbs and was now seeping into his organs. Into his chest, his brain...

No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't ignore it any longer: couldn't ignore what Chekov wanted him to know but couldn't bring himself to say.

He stepped forward, bent down, and picked up the piece of paper with Andrie's name on it. When he stood back up, he crushed the paper into a ball, fiercely jamming it together. Sure, a bit over dramatic, but…

Sulu turned and leveled his dark eyes solidly on Chekov. They stood there, frozen, their gaze locked on each other.

"Pavel," the older man finally said. "Pavel Andrieivich. With Andrie in jail, gone from the organization, you are currently….right now…," he repeated hollowly, as if neither of them understood what 'currently' meant. "You're the Commander in Chief of the New Imperial Russian Navy."

He wanted Chekov to dispute him. He wanted Chekov to launch into a temper tantrum arguing how wrong his friend was: wanted him to argue again that he was 'just doing computer work'.

But he didn't. He stood there: wound so tightly his muscles were visibly shuddering under the strain.

"I am the Commander in Chief of the Russian Navy."