Chapter 10

"I owe you an apology," Sulu commented. "All this time...I thought you were being a surly, spoiled brat because you were upset the crew knows you're 'Andriech' now."

"You give me credit for being far less shallow than I am," Chekov replied thickly, his accent deep. "I was absolutely sulking because the crew knows I am Andriech now."

"And not because your Starfleet career is over," Sulu said tightly.

And there it was. The oppressive truth that had been hanging over Chekov for the last week and, by extension, the entire ship. It didn't matter what the outcome of the trial was. If Andrie went to jail: Chekov was in charge of the Navy. If Andrie was acquitted: the Russian government, hell, all the governments of Earth, knew now that it was Andrie and Pavel running the Navy together. There was no going back from this.

They were never going to let all the Navy's computer functions, all its financial accounts, all of its personnel functions – be handled by someone on a deep space star ship. Someone with a whole set of other jobs, no less. That they'd been ordered back to Earth to deliver Chekov meant that the Russian government had discovered the truth: that they knew the current CIC of NIRN was in deep space somewhere.

What's more, Starfleet now knew. It was a violation of the oath Chekov swore when he took his commission. To serve no other…

As if hearing Sulu's thoughts, the younger man explained: "I was only doing computer work in my spare time."

The Helmsman eyed him dubiously.

The grey in Chekov's face deepened and he shifted uncomfortably. What had sounded like a perfectly acceptable loophole, when spoken aloud, was evident nonsense.

The future reality was as hard and cold as Sulu's soul was right now.

Pavel Chekov's Star Fleet career was over. No matter how this played out – he was going home. For good.

Sulu couldn't breathe.

"Who have you told?"

"No one," Chekov assured him. "Not even myself."

Chekov was back to funny quips as answers. It was how he kept people at arm's length - but it was only a signal to Sulu: of walls going up, of stories overwriting the truth.

"What about the National Historic Districts? Are you president of them too?"

"God, no."

The older man's dark eyes scrutinized him. The quips often only seemed like truths. They were often just well disguised sleight of hand. Chekov had not specifically stated…

"There's a Vice President," Chekov explained when he saw the scrutiny. "I have nothing to do with that government."

Sulu nodded tersely in acceptance.

They both stood there silently – not moving, staring at nothing. There was a heaviness in the air, and the silence that stretched on – wasn't silent. They were having a full conversation standing there without speaking.

"Galapagos," Chekov finally voiced their mutual thoughts.

Galapagos….the island chain on Earth that connected long-voyage sailing ships to each other in the age of exploration. A required stop for ship supplies and maintenance, travelers would leave letters and packages in the empty tortoise shells for their friends on other ships to pick up.

The heart of explorers hadn't changed, so it was no surprise that deep space 'sailors' had found such a spot in the galaxy – and no surprise that the two men had joked and planned for what they'd leave each other there when they were roaming the stars on their own, separate ships.

This wasn't about losing the company of his best friend. It was a miracle that they'd both ended up on the same ship out of the Academy to begin with: that they'd be serving in different parts of the fleet eventually was a given. But even separated by half a galaxy…. When Sulu got his own ship, he had expected – planned - for Chekov to be out there somewhere – captain of his own ship too. And as all brothers in the military had done for time immortal – still sharing in each other's lives – if only by the occasional letter, rare random meeting at a space station, taunting gift left at deep space's version of the Galapagos Islands. He hadn't planned to be out here enjoying the adventure on his own.

A smile tugged at Sulu's mouth. "Galapagos." I love you too, he thought, profoundly grateful that the demonstrative, affectionate Russian man understood and accepted his friend's discomfort with open affection.

The loss of the silly plan made the weight of the ultimate loss overpowering. "This isn't right," he said in frustration. "You fought too hard to be here: fought too hard for your dream."

Chekov had fought harder than any person he knew of for a Starfleet career: facing seemingly insurmountable obstacles to a career in space right from birth. Half his life spent in 19th century rural Russia, the other half on an 19th century sailing ship: Chekov had the added joy of a reciprocated family hatred for a prominent Fleet Admiral in Starfleet. If that wasn't enough, he'd had two serious accidents it'd taken years to recover from – both of which jeopardized his appointment to the Academy. His entire life had been a hard scrapple fight to realize his dream of a career in Starfleet and now, it was being ripped away.

Sulu paced towards the younger man.

Chekov shifted, then moved nearer the room divider. "This isn't tragic," he said, as if hearing the other man's thoughts. "This isn't even special. It's just…life."

He stood up the bottles laying flat on the divider before moving on, pacing away. "Children have been doing what their families needed since – Humans have existed. Did Cain and Able want to be farmers? Probably not: but the family had to eat."

Sulu continued pacing towards him.

Chekov was moving as he was talking, gesturing. "Children have always had to put aside their own dreams for the sake of family. Marry the person they need to..." a slight wince creased his face at the words, but he continued without hesitation. "They do the same job as their father. They continue the family business."

A wave of his hand stopped Sulu's protest. "If you didn't have an older brother, you'd be studying rocks on some dead planet."

It was the truth. Sulu couldn't deny being the 'extra' child had given him his freedom.

"I had my dream," Chekov concluded. "I have been blessed: luckier than most."

Sulu was in the middle of the living area again, and he stood there – refusing to continue the game of jockeying of positions they had been silently engaged in. "Pavel," he said. "I never do this."

"'Never' is a strong word," the man drawled from his stance on the far side of the room.

But nonetheless an accurate word… the acknowledgement was in both their eyes.

The amount of energy and deliberation that went into Sulu's decision made it a profound one: one that could not be brushed aside or ignored now that it had been made. Chekov should have understood that.

"Malyenki," Sulu ordered, "MODI." The incongruous use of Chekov's Russian nickname and the Georgian word for "come" – which Sulu shouldn't have known – stopped Chekov in his tracks.

"MODI," Sulu ordered again, dark eyes fixed on the younger man.

Chekov resisted another long moment, but then finally shifted and moved towards the Helmsman reluctantly.

Sulu lurched forward, taking the last step between them, and threw his arms around the man in a bear hug.

Chekov stood stiffly in the man's grasp, unsure of what to do with his hands.

Sulu tightened his grip. "Your friend needs a hug." He was playing on the man's sense of duty, on his obligatory requirements of being a good friend. It really wasn't a fair thing to do: but it worked.

Chekov wrapped his arms around Sulu then. As soon as he felt his body in his embrace, Chekov's grip tightened. Sulu felt the shudder go through him and he held him until he stopped crying: why he iniitated the hug in the first place.

His friend's hug made it all real. If anyone had made it clear that they wanted a life out among the stars, it was Pavel. He didn't want to be sailing on the Earth's oceans, he didn't want to be teaching folk dances.

Sulu waited until Chekov had stopped crying – had spent all the misery his friend had dredged up. "You're not making this any easier," the Helmsman observed then.

Chekov pulled away and searched his friend's face.

Sulu knew the younger man had turned himself into a surly asshole not – as he probably believed himself – so no one would care if he left – but to make his life aboard so miserable, he wouldn't care when he left it behind. It was an act of emotional survival.

"You're just wasting the few days you have left to enjoy it."

Chekov shrugged mutely and turned away to adjust a book on the shelf.

Sulu straightened, setting his shoulders back. "Have you completely lost your mind?" he demanded angrily.

Chekov shot his eyes at him and blinked. "I am very confused. First you hug me and now you are yelling at me?"

"Yes!" Sulu retorted, his voice still raised. "I hugged you because you are sad you're leaving: I'm sad you're leaving. And now I'm yelling at you because 'I'm upset because people found out my father is famous' – and pouting for a week is acceptable. But 'I have to go back home to work in the family business' – and pouting is unacceptable! You TELL someone! Immediately! You tell ME immediately!"

"Why?" Chekov shouted back at him. "What's the difference?!"

"So we can help!"

"How could you help?!"

"I don't know! You just told me!"

"There is no instruction book for this!" Chekov spat out.

"So your immediate choice was to revert to a 5-year-old?!" Sulu demanded. "There are people who are alone in this world: YOU are not one of them. You have me. You have Nyota. You have your parents: Sergie, the sailors. The Enterprise's crew. There are dozens of people who would drop everything to help you. But your choice was to act like some secluded brat."

There wasn't any denying it. The endless parade of his shipmates trying to help proved Sulu's point. They stood there, glaring at each other in silence a long moment.

Sulu shook his head then. "Sergei's going to beat your ass."

Chekov sighed. "Badly. Without a doubt." There was no truth in that. The man he considered his grandfather had absolutely no hesitation at making his opinions of Pavel's behavior known – loudly for an extended period of time: but he'd never been violent.

"Better than what the villagers are going to do," he commented morosely. If someone told Sergie about his behavior on the Enterprise, he'd have to face the villagers with all his utter failures as a Human as well. There were no anonymous failures when you belonged to a village in one of the Historic Districts.

Chekov finally shifted, letting his outrage dwindle away quickly. "Koshka, I do need your help," he admitted.

"To get your father out of jail?" the Helmsman asked eagerly. "What do we need? Files? Explosives?"

Chuckling, the younger man shook his head. "No. With all of this," he clarified, gesturing at the organizational chart. Sulu strolled over to stand next to him, his gaze following Chekov's to the floor.

"I am not my father," he continued, gesturing at the organizational chart. "I can't do this."

The Helmsman's gaze took in the hundreds of ships reporting to the CIC – and the one guy doing all the "computer work." "Who could?" he asked.

"I will give you a raise," the younger man said helpfully.

"A big one," Sulu nodded agreement and stood surveying the papers. "Pavel, even if…" He corrected himself. "Even when your father comes back, this has to be fixed."

"Promotions are long overdue." Chekov stood surveying the chart and sighed deeply as if to reduce the weight of it. "Fleet Captains, Commodores, Admirals…"

"Computer experts."

Chekov met Sulu's dark eyes for a minute before he shrugged weakly. "No one qualifies." The crew that had been dreaming of the sea their entire lives had usually been floundering in unrelated and nonsensical jobs. The ones who were searching for somewhere to belong were often nearly illiterate. Neither of these categories involved people who could do the necessary "office work" of the Navy's operations.

"We need to recruit people."

Their dark eyes met instantly. They'd both heard it at the same time… "We…"

Sulu tried to glare away Chekov's smirk.

"A very 23rd century concept," Chekov observed in response. It wasn't one that Sulu should have had to surprise him with: but "recruit" was a foreign concept to the Navy. Their crews just flocked to the ships for the chance to work under sail. "I hadn't considered recruiting men," he admitted.

"And women."

The younger man blinked. Repeatedly. Having his mother on the ship was an oddity that only worked…because it was Mama. She was everyone's mother.

Sulu waited while he watched him process the thought. Though his upbringing might have said otherwise, Chekov wasn't actually a 19th century man. While he knew that having a mixed crew jammed into bunks and hammocks together in tiny fo'c'sles was the stuff nightmares were made of.

"A ship," Chekov finally concluded out loud, his eyes shining with the possibility, "crewed entirely by women."

"Yes," Sulu agreed. "Or you can just start with female bureaucrats. Procurement officers. Personnel clerks. Computer experts," he finished dramatically.

"Any gender," Chekov concluded. "They would be working in Petersburg." He'd completely and miraculously missed Sulu's emphasis entirely: but the weight in his voice seemed to be lifting.

"That's why you pay me." Sulu smirked as he passed on the way to the other side of the room. "More than you used to."

Cocking his head, he considered the scope of the chart on the floor. "Admiral of the American Fleet, Admiral of the African Fleet, Asian…" he began naming continents.

"That is preposterous," Chekov retorted. "No one can handle ALL the ships and museums in the Americas."

Sulu's head snapped over to throw a twisted look at his friend. It was barely a drop in what Andrie had been doing.

Chekov ignored the look.

"Okay," Sulu continued. "Then: North American, South American, Great Britain…"

"The Atlantic and Pacific are two completely different situations. Wind, tides…"

Sulu gave him an overly-patient stare and wondered how much his raise in pay was. "North American Atlantic Fleet Admiral," he recited. "North American Pacific Fleet Admiral."

Chekov seemed satisfied with that.

Strolling up toward the top of the North American continent, Sulu knocked a bottle down with his foot. "The Captain of the Constitution," he declared, "is now the NAAFA."

Chekov shook his head. "He has only been a captain for a year." He pointed lower in the chart. "The Constellation: her sister ship. The Captain is likely going to retire anyway if we don't promote him."

"That's not a reason to promote someone."

Chekov brushed the concern aside with a wave of his hand. "He is ready."

"1 down….24 to go."

"24?"

"A starting guess."

Nodding an acknowledgement, Chekov moved over to study the other side of the North American continent. "Thayer, Balclutha, Matthew Turner, Star of India, Surprise…"

As Chekov muttered the names of ships to himself, Sulu's gaze fell back to the top of the organizational chart again. There was a discordant reality there that was overwhelming.

"Andriech."

He saw the stiffness shudder through the younger man's shoulders and he paced carefully toward Sulu. "What?" The tone of the voice was a challenge, a demand: just like the gleam in his eyes.

Sulu realized the man thought his friend had just called him only 'Andrie's Little Son.' "We have a bigger problem than filling out the organizational chart," he explained. "It's Andriech."

Color flushed into the younger man's cheeks. Even in the 3rd person he felt betrayed by his best friend apparently using his 'public' name. "What is the problem?"

Sulu scowled at him ludicrously. "The problem is we have a 12-year-old, prepubescent boy in charge of the Russian Navy."

"Do I look like a 12-year-old, prepubescent boy?" Chekov demanded.

"No," Sulu spat back. "But you're Pavel Chekov. It's Andriech that's the 12-year-old boy."

"What are you talking about?"

"Really?" Sulu pressed. "You're going to claim to be completely unaware that Andriech is a complete and total lie?"

"I don't lie!"

"Andriech IS the lie."

Saying Chekov didn't lie was ludicrous, at best. No, he never outright lied (if you ignored all the statements of what Russians had accomplished), but his "I'm misleading you by telling you the truth" diversion game was epic. "My father is a cultural anthropologist." Oh, and, well, CIC of the Navy. "I served in the Navy as a teenager." Yes, and as a TODDLER.

It was his Svengali-level manipulation of the public's view of him that was genius-level lying, however. Chekov's skillful acting and management had created a full-formed Human being that did not actually exist. Sulu may have convinced him that having different personalities around different people was normal but, truthfully, Chekov's different personalities were a whole different thing. It wasn't "normal" – not by a long shot. "Andriech" was a construct that would have had the Wizard of Oz in awe.

The color deepened in his cheeks, and Chekov stood poised as if to launch an attack in defense of himself.

"Look," Sulu said evenly. "For whatever reason…."

They both knew full well the reason.

"Andriech" was the construct Chekov had come up with to survive a life of constant surveillance. 'Andriech' was an adorable, smiling, angelic, prepubescent, completely non-threatening imp.

"'Andriech' has stayed a perpetually pre-pubescent boy," Sulu said again. "It has to stop. A child can't be in charge of the Navy."

"Kierkegaard said…"

"That who we show to the crowd is a lie," Sulu finished the younger man's desperate grasp for valid reasoning. "Were you planning to return to Russia and be celibate for the rest of your life?"

The older man saw the panic start to edge out the confusion in Chekov's eyes as realization took hold.

"What do you expect me to do?"

Sulu gestured the simplicity in the air. "Just let them see you went through puberty." It was simple logic to the Helmsman. Chekov had the body of an athlete. Daily swims and workouts produced rock hard muscles on his small frame. And his Georgian heritage had covered his body with thick, dark hair that was decidedly adult: in addition to other adult male attributes rumored to be shared by Georgian males.

Abject horror completely took over his Chekov's wide eyes.

"I'm not saying you should suddenly whip off your clothes and go skinny dipping in the fountains at Peterhof," Sulu assured him. "But you have the equipment that makes it easy. Just wear a button-down shirt and leave a few buttons open. Wear a V-neck shirt, wear a t-shirt that's short-sleeved and tight. Play football in shorts. Just start letting them see that 'Andriech' has grown up." Sulu's eyes were regarding his friend. "And put away the damn sailor suit."

"It's a Navy uniform," Chekov spat back.

Sulu's eyes widened. "Really?" he asked dryly. "No other sailor has long pants. No one else's pants are loose and made out of polyester."

Chekov straightened, surprise flitting through his eyes. He wore the standard cotton capris as his pajamas on the Enterprise and when he was relaxing in his cabin. It was clear that he hadn't expected Sulu to have noticed the differences to the uniforms he wore in Russia – or understood them.

"Those white silk stockings…" Sulu elaborated, in case Chekov thought he didn't understand. They would have shown both his well-developed calf muscles and the dark hair on his legs. And the clingy cotton pants – accentuated more than his ass and thighs. Uhura walking in on him as he got out of the shower once hadn't been an accident it was purported to be: curiously had to be satisfied.

"Andriech never takes his middy blouse off either," Sulu added. Because if he did…the tight, striped shirt that was the pride and joy of the sailors would have shown his well-defined arm, chest, and abdominal muscles: and the thick, black hair that covered them. It was all part of the "little boy" illusion.

It was actually pretty impressive that a 23-year-old could still have convinced the entire population of Earth he was still a child. His wide brown eyes, sheepish grin, adorable accent – even when he spoke Russian. Impish self-depreciating mannerisms were a perfected act that was deserving of every acting award that existed.

"It can't last forever," he commented what should have been obvious.

Chekov looked panicked as the total reality of Sulu's suggestions took hold. "Andriech can't grow up," he said hoarsely.

Sulu shook his head in disagreement. "Andriech can't date," he corrected. He'd be no more than a notch in every woman's scavenger hunt, thought Sulu ruefully. Not just because he was a celebrity. There was a reason Chekov didn't share that he was half Georgian. Among the women of the Russian Federation and nearby countries, Georgian men had the reputation of being a male version of the combined talents of Orion and Troyan females. Whether it was true or not was something many were determined to find out. At the best of times, it was a lot to live up to: at the worst of times, it made any life other than the 'oldest profession' almost impossible.

"But Andriech can definitely grow up," Sulu concluded. "He's grown up on the Enterprise."

The impish boy did more than keep him off women's radar. It kept him from being a real person with real emotions who endured pain and heartache. It kept him as a perpetual, glorified symbol of the innocent and happy childhood everyone wanted to believe was the norm.

Their dark eyes were locked on each other's as Chekov stood there, silently weighing what his 'Big Brother' had declared. There was acceptance finally – because there simply wasn't another option.

"You're not giving people enough credit," Sulu advised warmly. "The Russians on the Enterprise came aboard only knowing Andriech," he observed. "Them seeing that he grew up hasn't caused the universe to implode."

The acknowledgement in Chekov's eyes was dubious at best. To be fair, thought Sulu, he had just asked him to destroy the other life he knew. It wasn't just his life on the Enterprise that was over.

After a moment, the younger man gestured to the floor. "We can work on this tomorrow. I have to leave. I picked up a shift in the security lab."

"Of course you did."

There was no sarcasm in the words, nor in his eyes when he met his friend's. Fill your memory with every moment of work in space that you can, Sulu thought. "You look like hell," is what he said aloud.

"Yes," Chekov agreed. "Thank you for that."

"Hey, it's what brothers are for."

When Chekov disappeared into the bathroom, Sulu sat down on the edge of the bed and surveyed the room again. Damn, I thought he was finally a slob for once.

After a few minutes, Chekov reappeared.

Sulu gave him a rueful wince. "Now you look like you're going into anaphylaxis."

"Misson accomplished," the navigator responded, folding up the cold, wet cloth that had made his entire face red and swollen – not just his eyes. As a Russian, Chekov fully embraced all his emotions – but showing up on duty with obvious signs of his sobbing was inviting casual acquaintances into his private life.

"Tomorrow," he commented, waving as he strolled toward the corridor door.

"Hey!" Sulu protested, spotting the book and magazines now in the man's hand. "I need those tonight."

"No." Chekov turned back and fixed him with a dark look. "NO. Absolutely no one on this ship wants you making sourdough bread. Especially…" he emphasized, cutting off Sulu's protest. "The chef!"

The Helmsman instantly scrambled back on the bed and flopped backward: taking great pains to dig his boots into the quilt in retaliation. He lay there, baiting Chekov. The "get your boots off my bed!" was clear in the man's eyes, but he never voiced it.

Disappointing.

He settled backwards, burying his head back into the pile of pillows.

"Sarah and I are not dating anymore."

The Helmsman tipped his neck forward to look at the room divider, where Chekov had appeared again. "That wasn't 'dating'," he informed him.

The instinctive retort shuddered through Chekov's back as he withheld it. "Whatever you call it: it's over."

"Sarah told me," Sulu acknowledged, laying his head back down. He needed to BE a friend. Dammit. "I'm sorry. Are you okay?" he forced himself to ask.

"No you're not. You wanted it to be over."

"Yeah. But I didn't want you hurt."

"I'm fine." Chekov shifted uncomfortably. "Look, whatever this is with Sara: 6 years is long enough. You need to fix it."

Sulu's eyes were fixed on the ceiling. "She's a predator."

Chekov eyes flashed dangerously. "You need to stop infantilizing…."

Sulu's eyes shifted to him as the younger man physically took control of his emotions.

"I appreciate that you look out for me. I do," Chekov continued evenly. "But I wasn't a child and the only thing Sarah did….was not say no."

"She USED you," Sulu said angrily.

"We used each other," Chekov spat back. He steadied himself again. "We are not…but we are still family: she's going to be in my life. So, whatever you have to do to get past this, do it," he ordered. His stance softened a bit. "She's a good person: brilliant, sensible, strong…" he hesitated and made a point to meet Sulu's eyes. "Her father is Michael Kipiani. Her grandfather is Nikolai Kipiani. She doesn't need another person in her life telling her she's a piece of shit."

Sulu dug his head back deeper into the pillow. "Note taken," he muttered dismally.

Reaching up with both arms, he pulled the pillow behind his head up against his face in a soft cocoon. He heard the door open as the man left: but then Chekov reappeared at the room divider again instead of exiting.

"Are you EVER going to leave?" Sulu growled.

"This is MY cabin!" he spat back. He shifted then, and glared at the older man. "Is that it?" he demanded.

Sulu kept the pillow around his face in imitation of a night-time taco. "What?"

"This morning you tell me I am a self-aggrandizing fool, now you inform me I am a PR marionette."

Sulu was quite sure he hadn't said any of that.

"If there is any other Earth-shattering truths about myself I should know, you should tell me now and get it over with all at once."

Sulu tilted his head up in the pillow and studied him. I pity the woman that ends up with this very definition of 'high maintenance'. After a moment, he released the pillow and waved his hands in silent futility.

Chekov left the room again, leaving Sulu lying on the bed and staring at the photographs of ballerinas on the wall across from it.

"Tatiana," he suddenly called after the man.

Once again, Chekov appeared. "What?"

"The other Earth-shattering information about yourself," Sulu answered. "Tatiana, "he repeated, gesturing to the photographs. "She's not your actual sister," he concluded.

He felt the wide brown eyes staring at him.

"Wait," Chekov suddenly gasped. "Are YOU not my actual brother too?" Tsking in disgust, he turned and finally left the cabin.

Sulu lay there – feeling both mentally exhausted and revengeful. He wondered how Chekov was going to get to the Security Labs in 3 minutes.

Rolling over onto his stomach, he buried his face in the top pillow. The scent of cherry blossoms on the breeze wafted over him.

I need to take the sour dough starter out of the bathroom and hide it before Chekov finds it, he thought sleepily.

Images of waves of thick hair the color of honey drifted through his mind. He found himself smiling.

I can hide it Tatiana's room. Chekov will never find it there.

Tatiana can't hide my bread. Tatiana is in Russia.

Does Tatiana make bread?

Does Tatiana even EAT bread?

As he drifted off to sleep, his most important thought filled his mind completely.

Does Tatiana know Pavel stole her pillow?