Chapter 11
The ship's dining room was alive with high energy. Enthusiastic voices charged with emotion filled the space – conversation after conversation tripping over each other as they darted about the room. The thrill of the upcoming shore leaves on Earth was almost overpowered by the food being served. Every serving station had lines as the starship crew almost unanimously chose the fresh food options tonight over the replicators in the rec rooms.
Kirk spent a long moment rearranging the items on his tray. He was sure it was some kind of diagnose-able neurosis, but the abundance of fresh food prompted a need in him to prolong the meal each second he was able to. Salmon, string beans, sliced potatoes, greens with tomatoes…..oranges!
"Are you going to eat your dinner or shellac it?" McCoy rasped.
"I'm just making sure I appreciate the moment."
The Doctor pierced several potatoes with his fork. "There's nothing to appreciate about cold food."
Kirk overcame the need to not reward the Doctor's maternal nagging and began eating.
"What's wrong with Jesus?"
"Bones!"
McCoy gave him a self-righteous glare in return: reinforcing his legitamate choice of nicknames.
Kirk's gaze shifted to the ship's Logistics Officer. While the Captain made have objected, the Doctor was correct that Lt. Cmdr. Quaid was sublimely accepting of his crewmates referring to him as "Jesus". His shoulder length auburn hair, goatee, and piercing blue eyes had probably earned him that comparison for more years than he'd been in Starfleet. In fact, in what Kirk thought was an odd twist, Quaid was actually referred to as "Enterprise Jesus" – because, apparently, several other ships had their own look-alikes.
Currently, the Logistics Officer stood off to the side of the 1st serving station, arms folded across his chest as he surveyed the activity in the room. There was a greyness about him: a virtual cloud in stark contrast with the bright cheer that filled everyone else in the room.
It made little sense, as the crew's good mood and enthusiasm was directly caused by him.
"Worried the food will run out?" Kirk suggested as he punched his fork into the salmon.
McCoy thrust his hand into the air and started snapping his fingers. "Hey!"
"Don't…" but the man had already locked eyes with the doctor and, at his urging, was now making his way over to them.
As Quaid stopped at the table, there was an obvious debate on his face about the position of his arms. The presence of the commanding officer won out any other argument he was debating and he dropped them to hang uncomfortably at his sides. "Sir?"
"What's the matter?" McCoy asked before Kirk could speak. "Is the food poisoned?"
Kirk's hand stopped his response. "We can arrange a private meeting with either one of us if you'd like." The issue at hand could have either been a Starfleet issue or a medical issue, and he was obliged to offer both.
The man shook his head slightly. "No need, Captain. I'm just contemplating my learned incompetence."
"Are you out of your mind?" McCoy rasped. "We're sitting here eating fresh lamb and salmon and you're worried about being incompetent?"
"Doctor…" Kirk bit out a warning. If the man really was dealing with an existential crisis, he doubted that was the method to help him deal with it.
"I'm wondering if I should leave when Chekov does."
Kirk's form stilled and he fixed steady eyes on the man. "You're listening to rumors. Chekov isn't leaving."
The man's brilliant blue eyes were unwavering, but the set of his jaw made it clear that he found the Captain's assertion less than reassuring.
It was an unsettling situation. While Kirk knew that Chekov was friends with Quaid, he also knew that they were just 'casual shopping buddies'. There was a significant age difference between the two and, while Chekov was bright and outgoing, Quaid was a quiet introvert. Chekov does love to shop…and it is one of the Logistics Officers main job functions, Kirk thought. But he was certain that the kind of devotion Quaid was showing the navigator was not reciprocated.
"I suspect that I've become incompetent," the Lt. Commander repeated.
Eyes narrowing, Kirk made a pointed gesture of pushing a large piece of salmon into his mouth. "17 years," he said. "I've been in the Fleet 17 and I have never met another Logistics Officer that was able to consistently pull off the…magic that you do."
As Logistics Officer, Quaid did more than supply uniforms, operating necessities, and fresh food: he found props and set pieces for Uhura's theater shows, replacement pieces for Scotty's broken bagpipes, new fencing foils for Sulu's classes, medical oddities for M'Benga's research…
"Chekov makes the rest of my job easy," Quaid said. "What if I've forgotten how to mange the food on my own?" He chewed on the inside of his cheek a long moment. "Forgotten the back channels…"
Sighing, Kirk set his fork down. "Casual shopping buddies"…. Chekov, he immediately realized, had been funding the shopping trips and padding out the Logistics Officer's budget.
The food currently on Kirk's tray was not from a shopping trip, however. Just this morning, one of the supply ships that Quaid arranged to meet the Enterprise randomly in her travels had arrived. No Logistics Officer he knew of did such a thing. They relied on Starfleet channels and shopping trips on the stations and planets they stopped at. Quaid, however, arranged for non-Starfleet supplies to come to the ship on a routine basis.
Kirk reached for the orange on his tray and held it up to the man. "The supply ships you arrange…"
Quaid was chuckling and folded his arms across his chest again, blue eyes brilliant.
"Mr. Chekov," Kirk concluded, placing the orange back on his tray. "Pays for the supply ships."
He shook his head. "No, he doesn't."
Kirk was genuinely surprised.
"They're from his village," Quaid explained. "The villagers worry that we don't have enough fresh food, so they send us routine supplements. I've assured them," he continued. "But….you know: oranges."
It's like a mother forcing food on you when you visit, even though you are full, thought Kirk. But…you know: oranges.
Quaid gestured with his head – at the serving stations, at the dining room in total. "What if this is the last time?"
Kirk considered the Logistics Officer's concerns. The villagers weren't just sending Chekov extra food. With the young man on the Enterprise, they had made the ship an extension of the village. If Chekov went home would they suddenly stop supporting the other 429 people they'd adopted?
Judging the villagers by what he knew of Chekov: he sincerely doubted it.
A good Logistics Officer had the kinds of skills that couldn't be taught at Starfleet Academy. They were adept at navigating clerical loopholes, knew a dizzying amount of ways to get whatever was needed, carried a pocketful of incentives ready at all times for the sources that needed encouragement, and were adventurous in schemes that required forethought. Despite what every other department chief might think, it was the Logistics Officer that was the glue that kept the ship running.
Kirk hadn't been exaggerating. Quaid was the most extraordinary Logistics Officer he'd ever encountered. If one of the channels he'd tapped into was the ship's Chief Navigator that might have made him lazy, but it certainly didn't discount his skills.
"Chekov isn't leaving," Kirk reassured again.
Quaid hesitated: but Kirk's jaw was hard, his eyes definitive. It may not have convinced the Logistics Officer, but he understood the conversation was over. With a terse nod, he turned and began wandering through the tables and diners like a school lunchroom monitor.
McCoy's eyes were on his plate as he methodically poked his fork into the lamb there. "I don't know how Chekov has time to navigate the ship," he commented.
Kirk glared at him. "I'm beginning to think it's Chekov who needs financial advice. There are surely better ways to spend one's funds than splurging on luxury foods for your shipmates."
Yes, he was supremely aware of the irony of the statement as he was chewing fresh salmon. Their proximity to Earth had made this shipment especially fine.
McCoy stopped eating long enough to give him a pointed look acknowledging the irony.
Kirk met the Doctor's gaze square in the eyes and pushed another piece of salmon into his mouth.
He chewed in thought. Any crewman leaving the ship caused ripples that were largely unexpected. Always in the social structure, but often in departments they seemingly had nothing to do with. His self-depreciating nature could never allow acknowledgement of his effect on the minute officer or logistics, but Chekov's absence would certainly be felt ship-wide.
Kirk was spared the necessity of coming up with a life altering observation when Spock entered the room. He focused on the man as he approached the table.
He continued eating as he watched Spock enter the dining room. He focused on eating as he watched Spock enter and approach the table.
It was McCoy that greeted him as he approached their table. "Spock," he acknowleged his approach, and pushed his fork toward the serving stations. "Fresh vegetables."
"I have eaten, Doctor. Thank you."
"Please tell me you have good news," Kirk prompted.
The Science Officer shifted his weight. "I do not understand labeling information with a moral classification."
"Yes, you do," McCoy countered. "You're not an idiot, Spock. 'Good' news helps exonerate Chekov and his father. 'Bad" news incriminates them."
"I do not have 'good' news."
"And do you have bad news?" McCoy pressed.
"I am unsure."
Kirk shot a weary glare at McCoy. "Join us," he said to Spock and pointed at a chair. "What did you find out?" he continued after the Science Officer took a seat opposite them.
"There are absolutely no traces of where the missing funds have been diverted to."
Swallowing his mouth full of food, Kirk took a drink of his coffee. "Well if you aren't able to trace it…" no one can. "And the 'not sure if it's bad'?"
"The computer work diverting the funds and hiding their destination is flawless."
McCoy's eyes lit up. "Spock! Is that admiration for a thief?"
Spock raised an eyebrow and tilted his head towards him in a measured act of patience. "No. It is that I recognize the work, Doctor."
The fact that one IT professional could identify the work of another was something a surgeon could understand. "Then we'll have to make sure you aren't called as a witness." McCoy stated with a finality.
"That would be advisable."
"Would anyone else recognize Chekov's work?" Kirk asked.
"I do not believe anyone else has worked as extensively with him as I have."
"But you're unsure."
"Correct."
Kirk moved his orange to the tabletop, picked up his coffee cup, and moved the tray away. It was picked up before he'd finished his sip of coffee. "Chekov told me that Andrie takes bribes…but only in borzoi puppies." He gave a pointed look to the Science Officer. "Any idea what that means?"
Spock straightened and folded his arms across his chest. "Ownership of Borzois was restricted to the royal family. It was, in fact, illegal to own a Borzoi if it had not been gifted to you from the Tsar."
McCoy exchanged a glance with Kirk. "You just had this information about a random dog breed sitting there in your brain waiting for use?"
Spock regarded the doctor dimly. "In Mr. Chekov's opinion, they are hideous dogs."
"I told you the boy was spending too much time with him."
"It was because of their tie to the Romanovs that the breed was nearly made extinct during the Russian Revolution," the Science Officer insisted.
Kirk pushed on past the bickering. "So….Chekov said his father only takes illegal property as bribes." He considered the preposterous notion. "Andrie is a black marketeer," he concluded. He glanced from one to the other of his companions: waiting for a better conclusion.
"The Commander in Chief of the Navy is running around in back alleys pedaling stolen art?" McCoy asked dubiously. "You'd think the all-white tsar's uniform would be a give-away."
Of course it didn't make any sense, Kirk thought: but it was literally what Chekov had told him. He took a moment to savor the heat of the coffee in his hands as he considered it.
"Andrie needs funds," he ruminated out loud. "A lot of them. For what?" Chekov had pointed out that his clothing, shelter, and food were provided by the government. McCoy's 'stolen artwork' comment sat uneasy in the pit of Kirk's stomach. It was meant as a nonsensical idea: but…was the man who had made himself a Tsar also building his own secret "Hitler Museum"? What else could he need that amount of funds for?
"He's been stealing from the government for over a decade…."
"No he hasn't." McCoy's voice was a blatant statement of fact.
Kirk sighed and exchanged a glance with the Science Officer.
"But he hasn't!" the Doctor was insistent.
"Bones," the Captain said with a patient tolerance. "It's the one thing that's been proven."
"Andrie has not been stealing from the government," McCoy repeated flatly. "The charges are that government payments are being diverted. The government has already spent that money: sent it out to…somewhere else.
"He's not stealing from the government," he repeated. "He's stealing from whoever was supposed to get the payments. The money isn't making it to who it was intended for. So, for over 10 years, the place that's been…." He waved his hand in the air to generate a possibility. "supplying chickens, hasn't gotten paid for their chickens."
Kirk straightened, his eyes widening. He looked over at Spock and saw the same thought registering with him.
Kirk shook his head. "Who's he been stealing from for TEN YEARS…. that didn't notice or report it?!"
"And if they haven't reported it – is he stealing at all?" McCoy asked.
"And does the government even have jurisdiction to prosecute theft from…their vendors?"
Spock cocked his head in interest. "No one has been able to determine where the funds are being diverted to."
"Where the funds were intended to go, however…" the Captain theorized.
"Would be a relatively simple check," Spock finished.
There was a burst of laughter from behind Kirk.
Kirk twisted around to fix his eyes on the woman seated at the table behind them. "Excuse me?"
It didn't have the effect he would have expected from one of his crew caught eavesdropping on their C.O.
The dark-haired woman blinked wide brown eyes at him. "He can't do it."
"Excuse me?" he prompted again. It was a verbal reprimand to apologize and go back to minding her own business.
That's not how she understood it.
"They provided the information to substantiate their claims of theft," she continued. "But to get this new information you're looking for would require hacking into the Russian Governments servers. And other government's servers," she added. "Spock can't do it," she repeated: brown eyes more insistent than the last time.
"You're misinformed," McCoy advised her gently as he stabbed another potato.
"No," she insisted. "I am not."
Kirk didn't recognize the dark-haired woman in civilian clothes. She was spectacularly average: large curls falling over a symmetrical female form that might have been an illustration in a medical textbook, bright dark eyes in a face that was attractive but nonetheless nothing interesting, her knit dress and sensible shoes from the sale rack at a local department store. In total, she was someone who the Captain probably wouldn't have noticed: but they hadn't taken on any new crew lately. "And you are?" he demanded.
"Sarah, Captain. Sarah Kipiani. I'm visiting Pavel Chekov."
"Ms. Kipiani is Mr. Chekov's cousin," Spock interjected. "I granted her permission to travel the rest of the way back to Earth with us. I thought the distraction – may be useful."
Kirk nodded agreement. "Certainly worth a shot." Another item provided by the supply ship that morning, he thought.
"Spock's a computer expert," McCoy informed her while he chewed.
"So is she," Kirk commented. "You're from the Kipiani Consultant Group, right?"
She suddenly looked like a deer caught in headlights, but then nodded tersely.
"They design and install all the ship's computers' upgrades," Kirk continued to the Doctor. So she had the clearances needed for full access to the ship, he confirmed to himself. As if he had to doubt Spock's judgement. He then turned back to the woman. "You're Michael Kipiani's daughter?"
Her slender form stilled and she dipped her head, the curls falling over her face as she regarded him through the tops of her eyes: but didn't answer. Kirk nodded understanding. The man's 4 days of work on the Enterprise several months ago had been a nightmare – mostly for Chekov. I wouldn't claim him as a relative either.
"Is the Russian computer expert right?" McCoy asked with a strident urgency to his voice. "Spock can't hack into the Russian government's computer systems?"
"Oh, I'm sure Mr. Spock CAN hack into the government's computers," Sarah correctly quickly, pushing the curls back. "For 30 seconds before he's detected, shut down, and sent to jail."
"I would expect that to be accurate," Spock agreed with maddening simplicity. "A government computer server will have extreme security points in excess redundancy."
Kirk's jaw hardened, his hazel eyes brilliant with frustration. "We have to find out who the funds were supposed to go to if we have any hope of proving that…no one…has done anything illegal, much less treasonous. We need those people to testify."
His gaze shifted between Spock and the woman seated behind him. "You're the best in the galaxy," he said to the two of them. "How," he concluded. "Do we get in?"
"We cannot hack into government servers without detection," Spock repeated.
"You need to go in legitimately," Sarah said. "Use an account login that has genuine access – full access with top secret security clearance. Once in, no one would even notice what you're doing in there."
"And you have that clearance?" It was the first time Kirk's voice held hope.
Her chuckle was almost a snort. "Heavens, no," she said. "Not me." She cocked her head sideways to eye Kirk with a knowing, self-righteous glint in the depths of her dark gaze.
Kirk straightened, a smile edging over his face . "We need someone who can buy a roller coaster with the President's funds."
"Mr. Chekov," Spock stated with a note of surprise that he hadn't thought of it himself.
"So all this time, we just needed to ask Chekov to show us where the money was supposed to go?" McCoy asked in disbelief.
"NO." Kirk, Sarah, and Spock all said it at once.
"Mr. Chekov will not cooperate in any defense of either he or Andrie," Spock clarified.
McCoy dropped his fork and sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "So, you're saying we need Chekov's access to the Russian servers – but he won't give it to us." He fixed Kirk with the demand of righteousness. "You're his CO. Just order him to."
Kirk gestured futility with his coffee cup. And herein lies the issue with serving more than one master. "No jurisdiction," was all he said: but his eyes drifted over to stare at Sarah.
She was leaning forward on the table, savoring whatever beverage was in her cup. She had self-confidence so concrete that it bordered on arrogance: and at this time it was tripping right over the border.
"Ms. Kipiani?"
Sarah began to shrug luxuriously. "If only…." She stopped, her eyes on the Captain: and visibly changed her mind about being clever. She put her cup down and raised her head to meet his eyes directly. "He left his terminal open for me."
McCoy punched the air in victory, but a cloud traced over Kirk's face.
"We can't just walk into an officer's quarters and start rummaging around his computer terminal."
"They're also my quarters at the moment," Sarah reminded him. "And he specifically gave me permission to use the computer."
Sarah watched them expectantly as the three men appeared to be having a silent conversation.
"You can find the information?" Kirk verified.
She scowled at him, openly offended by the question.
"Chekov's on third watch tomorrow," Kirk said quickly. "It's the only time we'll be sure he won't be coming back to his cabin. We can…"
"He is on duty now," Spock told him. "He volunteered for an extra shift in the security labs."
"Why in the blue blazes did you let him do that?" McCoy demanded.
"He asked." Spock was non-pulsed.
"Well, there you have it," Kirk shrugged to the Doctor as he stood.
"And it means he doesn't take bribes." Sarah was on her feet too, but hesitating in obvious confusion as to what to do with her tray.
Kirk looked for and gestured to one of the kitchen crew to take care of the woman's dinner remnants. "What was that, Miss?"
"The proverb: 'He takes bribes, but only in borzoi puppies,'" Sarah explained after she thanked the man who took her tray. "The proverb means 'he absolutely, under no circumstances, would take a bribe.' Taking borzoi puppies would just be reporting your crimes to the authorities," she elaborated when he didn't appear to understand.
Spock's eyebrow raised. "Taking borzoi puppies would be collecting evidence of your crime. So - more accurately – the definition is 'he is so moral that he not only doesn't take bribes, if he did, he'd turn himself in to the authorities'."
"That makes so much more sense than a Hitler Museum," Kirk observed with actual relief.
The Captain hesitated outside the door to Chekov's cabin, even though it was open. The only legitimate reason he'd be in an officer's cabin without him is to do a surprise inspection: which they didn't do on his ship.
Sarah glanced up from the computer. "So, I'm saving his career alone now?"
The Captain settled his shoulders and strode over to her at the desk. "You have it?"
She stopped and twisted her head up at him with a look of absolute disbelief. "Do you always expect the impossible?"
"No," he told her. "It's just usually what I get."
"I've literally been here two seconds," she growled in blatant insubordination. Shaking her head, she
turned her attention back to the computer. "I need to pull up the actual indictment to see what funds they're talking about." She worked for a minute, shifting the displays around. "Here we are," she said finally as a document popped up.
"And?"
She growled under her breath again. "I need to switch the display language."
"It's in Russian," Kirk pointed out.
She twisted to look up at the Captain. "Do you read Russian?"
"No. I thought…" Kirk was stopped at her blatant look accusing him of stupidity. Of course: why would he assume a Russian IT expert read the Russian language?
He pulled the second desk chair around to rest next to hers. "So?"
"Are you always like this?"
"Yes." Kirk said. "I'm the Captain." The less time he spent, uninvited, in an officer's quarters, poking around on his private computer, in restricted government accounts: the better.
He sat silently, watching as Sarah sailed around the systems before her at lightning speed. Top secret, mundane, eyes only, mindless data sheets…
"Payroll funds," she finally declared, nodding at the screen. "It's payroll that's being diverted. For over a decade, according to this."
Kirk leaned forward, balancing an arm on the desk as his eyes darted over the display. They retraced the information repeatedly: turning it over in his brain again and again. The readouts said exactly what the accusations did. Money for payroll was being sent out by the government – and then being diverted to… the funds just vanished.
"Destination," he bit out. "What payroll was it? Where was the money was supposed to go?"
Who were they routinely stealing the salary from? Were they stealing from the men who were most vulnerable, the men who would have no idea they were being shorted. The men who risked their lives daily…
That would explain why there was never any report, any complaint. Andrie….Pavel…it didn't matter who. The idea that either one of them would take funds out of the pockets of the men they claimed 'were like a family' made Kirk's soul go cold. "Where were the funds supposed to go," he repeated. "Find that."
Maybe the Navy paid salaries to some politicians. That would make sense, given Pavel's previous misdeeds.
Kirk leaned on the desk, watching as she searched the computer for his answers: watching the displays shifting at a dizzying speed. They started looking familiar, shifting back and forth, reappearing multiple times. His eyes shifted to her face, understanding what that meant. Clear distress was overwhelming her.
The Captain sat up, taking his arm off the desk. "We knew this wasn't going to go where we wanted," he reminded her quietly. "How bad is it?"
She shook her head tersely. "It's his salary, Captain. All of it."
"Who's salary?"
"ANDRIE's," she insisted. "Andrie's whole salary is being diverted."
Kirk's eyes narrowed. "You're saying the Commander in Chief of the Navy isn't getting paid - anything?"
Sarah shook her head and rifled through the data on the computer again. When she found what she was looking for, she sat back and shifted her eyes to the Captain expectantly.
"And this is?" Kirk asked, his eyes shifting from her to the display and back again.
"That's Andrie's personal account. It's had the same 1 credit in it for over a decade. He's never gotten anything. No deposits at all," she repeated.
"That's not possible," Kirk said immediately. "Check for a second account."
After working on the computer for another minute, she shook her head. "It's his only account."
He shook his head, his brow furrowing. "It's not just his salary that's missing," he explained. "Prize awards, for one. The Nobel alone comes with a monetary bonanza."
Andrie's personal account is actually set up to automatically reject any deposit attempt."
The Captain was shocked and outraged at the same time. Not only was Andrie not accepting a salary: he had been jailed because – he was stealing his own money.
Because no one had bothered to check who was supposed to be getting the funds.
It was mind-numbing to him that it took simple computer hackers to see the ridiculous truth, something apparently no one had bothered to check. Well, he corrected himself. Not simple computer hackers.
But why the hell hadn't Andrie or Pavel just told them?
And then it came to him….rushing through like a freight train. Chekov's voice came back to him. "What does he have to spend money on?"
He knew where all of Andrie's money was going. All the salary, the prize money, the bonuses…
"The money just keeps coming…I can't spend it fast enough".
Did Andrie agree to give Pavel all his funds? Kirk questioned. Was it a doting father on a spoiled son, or was this a 12-year-olds 'practical joke' that was never corrected? Was Chekov just stealing everything without Andrie's consent?
That, Kirk knew, is why neither of them had just volunteered what was happening with the 'missing' funds. To advertise to the whole world that Pavel had been getting every credit that was due to his father – for 11 years…
But Chekov had said the truth would embarrass the Russian government. How is Chekov getting paid his father's salary embarrassing to anyone but Andrie?
As he considered the realities revealed by the information, she leaned forward and began racing her way through computer screens again. "There's something else I think you'll want to see."
He sighed and turned his attention back to the screen. His jaw hardened and a darkness began seeping down through him. "This is the current organizational chart of the New Imperial Russian Navy?"
Sarah nodded, raising her eyes to him. "I just thought you'd want to know."
Kirk stood, nodding to her. "Thank you, miss. Your help has been invaluable," he said before turning and striding out the door.
Sarah turned back to the computer and began quickly backing out the way she got in: erasing her footprint and all evidence of her work. When she was done, she touched the papers and objects on the desk, adjusting them millimeters to make sure they looked undisturbed. Even though she had permission: she didn't want it to look like she used it.
"Stylus on the floor."
She froze.
"The stylus: It fell on the floor," the voice repeated.
She bent over to pick it up and then stood and paced to the room divider.
Sulu sat on the end of the bed, his palms pressed into the mattress on either side of his legs. His dark eyes, void of emotion, were fixed on her.
"He left the computer open so I could use it," she explained to him.
"Right," he said dryly. "For you and the Captain to poke around in the Russian government's accounts?"
She squared her shoulders. "Someone has to save his career."
His eyes remained steady. "Is it true?"
"That Andrie's…"
"That you don't read Russian?" he interrupted.
"My father named me Sarah," she reminded him, as if it was a full explanation. "There was no Russian…anything…in our home."
"That's unfortunate."
