Chapter 13
Kirk hesitated as he stepped into the transporter room. "Mr. Riley," he acknowledged with a note of surprise.
"They asked that we beam down together, Sir."
Most of the crew was already down on Earth's surface: whether they had family there, were with crew who did, or were just taking a much-needed Shore Leave. Only a skeleton crew remained as the ship orbited the planet and received her – frankly, made up, Kirk thought sourly, upgrades.
He paced towards the Lieutenant. "I'm going to the Russian courthouse."
"Yes, Sir," Riley acknowledged, shifting the duffle bag on his shoulder. "Something about the amount of traffic…."
Beaming down to a modern, heavily populated planet like Earth was a tricky endeavor at the best of times: it was standard for them to require a shuttle from the moon for most arrivals. The grouping of two transports at once struck Kirk as neither unusual nor unexpected. The transport of Kevin Riley to Russia, did, however.
It was unlikely, Kirk realized, that Riley – who had been in foster care after his family perished on Tarsus IV – had any family connections in Ireland he knew. So Russia was no more 'unexpected' than anywhere else on Earth would be.
He gestured for the younger man to mount the transporter padd and followed himself: juggling the handle of a heavy bag in one hand and a ridiculous potted plant in the other as he took position.
"You're not going to see the Admiral are you?" he asked suddenly. He'd remembered that Riley had spent an inordinate amount of time with the Admiral and his men when they were aboard the Enterprise.
"No, sir," Riley assured him as they materialized in the courthouse transporter room. With a curt nod to the Captain, Riley strode out of the room at practically a jog.
Kirk shifted his attention to the transporter operator and approached the console. "Excuse me: I'm looking for the holding cell with the Admiral."
The woman was engrossed with the information on the datapadd she was holding and didn't seem to hear Kirk.
"Excuse me…"
"Andrie or Andriech?" she asked without looking up at him.
He shifted uncomfortably at the reminder that Chekov was now being held here too.
"Andrie."
She nodded and finally looked up at him. "Take a left and go straight down to the other wing. Can't miss it."
"Thank you."
Kirk left the transporter room and headed down the front hallway.
When he had heard the building with the holding cells was on the site of St. Petersburg's original prison, he half expected bricks, mortar, and bars. It was a modern, airy building though – with broad tributes to the city's ancient past. Wide marble floors swept past copper-colored walls decorated with elaborate murals interspersed with inlaid viewscreens. At every juncture, a carved marble or bronze statue stood. It reminded Kirk of the Moscow subway….except for the vaulted ceilings that looked to be pure alabaster. They flooded the space with a natural light that had an eerie other-worldly glimmer to it that made everything in the building seem to shimmer.
Kirk felt like he must be the only new person in the entire building. Of all the throngs of people rushing by on their 'important business' in this government center, he seemed to be the only one who noticed the beauty of the place.
His footsteps came to an abrupt halt when he entered the central foyer with the main entrance to the building. Surrounding him - and filling every wall in the foyer - was intricate enamel artwork and jewels: soaring all the way up to that alabaster ceiling. The spectacular entrance took his breath away and made him feel like he was standing inside a Faberge egg.
How is absolutely no one else appreciating this? Kirk wondered with irritation as he dropped his eyes to survey everyone else rushing through the place as if they had blinders on. His gaze fell on the immense glass doors lining the wall to the outside: and the blinding white that filled them.
He shifted the potted plant in his left arm and walked up to one of the doors curiously. Outside the doors a long flight of stone steps rushed down to the street. They began wide and then they sprawled outward until their borders at street level weren't visible from the doors. There was a central path on the stone steps – about 5 feet wide – that was clear from the street to the doors.
The rest of the massive expanse of stairs were crammed full of men wearing the uniform of the New Imperial Russian Navy. They were just sitting, chatting amiably amongst themselves: but their presence formed an over-powering sea of uninterrupted white that stretched on to fill the senses.
This was more than the crew of the Admiral's own flagship. This was hundreds….thousands, Kirk corrected himself as his gaze went beyond the steps. The sea of sailors continued past the steps, spilling onto and filling the sidewalks of the street beyond. There was, literally, no end to them that Kirk could see. And on this bright day, the reflection of the sun off the sea of white uniforms was nearly blinding.
International Day of the New Imperial Russian Navy? Kirk thought suddenly. Is it September? Yes, he confirmed after a moment's thought. It's the end of September. Chekov had a standing "day off" request for September 27th and spent it every year deep in hiding somewhere on the ship. Probably in his cabin watching the festivities on Earth.
Kirk considered that they might have planned better than to have the trial of the two navy Admirals on the week that the Earth was celebrating them…when thousands of sailors and ships had returned to St. Petersburg for the festivities.
There was one group of sailors that had stood up: energetic, boisterous, unlike all the seated men. A quick glance verified for Kirk that Riley stood amongst them. That was the crew of the Admiral's ship, Kirk recognized. The crew Riley had met aboard the Enterprise. By the time Kirk had turned to continue his walk, they had sat back down: Riley's gold uniform gleaming like a gem amidst the white.
Just past the entrance, Kirk hesitated again. Signs shifting to Terran Standard seemed to indicate he needed to turn to access the holding cells. The woman had told him to go straight, however. Up ahead he could see a lone desk in the corridor and he continued on, expecting that he could get clarification there.
The man at the desk was wearing a uniform, which made Kirk assume he was a guard of some sort. A great hulk of a man, his feet were on the desk: a book reader balanced on top of them. As the Captain approached, the guard raised his eyes and acknowledged him with a nod before turning his attention back to the book.
"I'm here to visit the Admiral."
The guard raised his eyes again. "Yeah." He gestured down the corridor – then went back to reading.
Kirk shifted the bag in his hand experimentally. It had taken great efforts of moving mountains for him to get permission for this visit so he'd expected – something else. At least a search of the bag. But the rustling he caused by shifting it garnered no interest from the guard.
Kirk proceeded down the hallway then, wondering if the person he'd been directed to was, in fact, Andrie Chekov.
He came quickly to an open double-wide pocket door. He hesitated at it, his eyes shifting to study the wooden door frame. He saw nothing that resembled security features or a panel that would deactivate them. A quick glance down the rest of the hallway confirmed that there were no other doors. This, however, didn't seem to be a prison cell of any kind. Confused, he glanced back down towards the guard…who was still reading.
With a fatalistic resolve, he stepped through the doorway: expecting to be thrown back by an unseen forcefield. He was, happily, disappointed in that expectation.
The "cell" was spacious and resembled accommodations at an upscale luxury hotel. Kirk had stepped into a large living area with a dining table and chairs, several sofas and comfortable chairs, a wall of bookcases, and smaller side tables scattered about. Beyond it he could see a bedroom area and a private bath. Personal items were scattered thickly about the furnishings and floor: most notably numerous piles of papers and open hard-cover books.
Kirk wondered if this was a guest suite reserved for visiting government officials or if someone had vacated their apartment to allow Andrie to be housed there. It clearly wasn't a "cell". The personal items, the lack of security system, and the sole, uninvolved guard down the hall made Andrie a co-operative guest rather than a prisoner.
"Admiral Chekov?"
There was no answer.
The Captain moved into the room, peering around furniture and into the bedroom. "Admiral?" As he progressed he began to wonder if, indeed, the 'prisoner' was even there. "Ad…" he stopped as he spotted the man against the outside wall.
The wall was a bank of windows. Expansive and tall, they stretched across the entire room and from the ceiling to a chair-height solid wall. The man was kneeling: his attention on the odd collection of things perched on the wide windowsill that stretched the length of the room.
Kirk approached slowly, his eyes running down the length of the windowsill. It was filled entirely with an utter chaos of apparent waste.
Individually, there were an assortment of trays of seedlings - grass, herbs, newly sprouted seedlings and flowers; a shallow, wide bowl of water; boxes and bowls of rocks; mounds of dirt that conneced them and spilled onto the floor. Scattered over them were twigs, stones, and a wide assortment of various odds and ends of trash - bottle caps, broken plastic pieces, wrappers, corks.
Collectively, Kirk could see they formed an amazingly detailed miniature world. Fields of grass and unusual forests, manicured paths and bridges, chairs, shelters…and a lake.
"Admiral?" he ventured.
Andrie made no indication he'd heard: his gaze riveted on the miniature world in front of him. "I need a wide, flat stone," he observed aloud. He turned to a plastic bin of trash on the floor next to him and started digging through its contents.
To be fair, Kirk thought, the man had always objected to being called "Admiral."
He didn't look like an Admiral now. While his close-cropped Romanov beard and mustache were as impeccable as always, Andrie's thick black hair was twisted and curling into a matted thatch that nearly obscured the short braid down the back of his neck. It will be easier to shave that off than try to get a comb through it, Kirk thought. He wore an oversized and undecorated peasant shirt, it's off-white homespun fabric hanging low over rough-hewn brown pants. The worn brown leather belt cinching it at the waist was the closest to clean any of his outfit came.
Another allowance for this prisoner, the Captain thought. Not a corrections uniform, but the clothes that Andrie was comfortable in.
And that wasn't his Admiral's uniform
"They need a place to rest while they are swimming," Andrie continued without looking up from his task.
Kirk's eyes shifted over to the bowl of water in the middle of the chaos. It was a valid concern, he thought. "Who?" is what he said aloud.
"The fairies."
Producing the sought after rock from the bin, Andrie stood and moved over to the bowl of water.
"I'm Captain James T. Kirk," Kirk said. "Of the USS Enterprise."
"I remember," the other man commented, focused on placing the rock in the exact right place in the bowl of water.
Kirk nodded, knowing that even a man without a photographic memory would be hard pressed to forget the week they had spent shuttling the Admiral's crew to safety when their cruiser had been disabled in space.
Andrie stood then and looked at Kirk for the first time. "They don't like this kind of environment," he explained, gesturing to indicate the rooms they stood in. "Too drab. No color. I am hoping this will make them happy." His dark eyes darted around the room, as if searching for unseen listeners.
Motioning to Kirk to lean closer, the Commander in Chief of the Russian Navy said in a hushed voice: "They keep stealing my pens and pencils."
Straightening, Kirk stared at Andrie, his eyes widening subtly as he considered the man's words. His gaze shifted briefly to the world stretching along the windows. There were, in fact, several empty pen tubes serving as a bridge over a stream, and a makeshift swing made from a pencil stub.
"I see that," Kirk acknowledged.
Andrie vigorously brushed his hands on his shirt. Kirk wasn't sure if the point was to clean his hands or to brush dirt off the shirt. Neither seemed successful.
"Have you been in contact with Pavel?" he asked curiously.
"No. Only my interrogators and guards. Why?"
"He sent you this." Kirk handed him the bonsai tree he was carrying.
An instant grin split his face and the warm brown eyes shown brilliantly, like a child's on Christmas morning. "This is perfect!" His gaze met Kirk's for the first time. "It will give them shade while they are swimming."
The grin had an eerie familiarity to it, Kirk thought as he watched Andrie position the tree next to the bowl of water: being careful to ensure it blocked out the exactly correct amount of sun. Of course, Kirk thought in approval, you'd want sun to be on most of the water to warm it for swimming.
Without any communication, his thoughts continued, Chekov had known his father would have created this world: and the bonsai tree had been both a 'hello' and 'I see you.'
This was the man that government leaders feared, Kirk thought. The diabolical mind who had supposedly engineered a complicated, convoluted scheme to gain enormous power and defraud millions of their funds. That was the same man who had set about to create a methodically constructed miniature world for unseen beings in a bargain for the safekeeping of his pens and pencils.
He was staring into the same wide, soulful brown eyes that belonged to his Chief Navigator. Only this man was not so…Chekov. Although the eyes were as open and affable as his young Ensign's, there was a quiet in this man: an inner repose that struck one immediately on meeting him. Andrie was - more than anyone he'd ever met - at one with the universe. It occurred to Kirk that was the reason why he'd never placed them as father and son, despite the clear resemblance he now saw. Chekov had a constant buzz of energy about him, while Andrie was settled to his very core.
Maybe it was all because Andrie and the fairies had an understanding.
He was so...Andrie.
The brown eyes held his in a steady, unwavering gaze: as if the man could read into your soul. It was impossible to hide from him. Kirk knew he saw his un-expressed smile.
Andrie was waiting with utter patience, challenging him to reveal his thoughts.
Kirk shrugged in defeat. "It's your bare feet," he admitted. "Chekov…" does everything he possibly can to avoid wearing shoes. People that knew him suspected it was why he spent so much time in his cabin. You couldn't hang out on the rec decs in bare feet.
"Difficult to work on a wooden sailing ship with shoes on." The warm tenor voice resonated in Kirk's mind. Good God: this was the voice Chekov was using in the observation lounge.
"Or a farm," Kirk agreed. While he meant to recall Chekov's village life with the comment, somehow images of summers spent in Iowa with the dirt between his toes - running through the fields to catch butterflies and fireflies - swept through his mind.
Affection filled the brown eyes, as if Andrie heard the thought.
And, somehow, Kirk believed he did.
"You haven't eaten your lunch," is what the Captain opted to say: indicating the untouched tray on the dining table.
Andrie moved over to the table, eyeing the tray and it's assortment of colored, geometrical objects. "I don't know what that is," he said. "I know it's food," he added quickly, as if the Captain would have doubted his ability to reason. "It's on plates and there is silverware. I just don't know what it's supposed to be."
"It's chicken and potatoes," Kirk explained. "Synthetic food has a predictable look – and taste – that you get used to."
Andrie nodded with an affable smile: but there was absolutely no belief in his eyes that the food was what Kirk said it was or that anyone ever 'got used to it'.
"Our chef sent you a care package," Kirk continued, placing the bag he carried on the table. He had considered it a mere social errand until the untouched tray made him realize that he hadn't seen Andrie eat anything but the fresh food on the Enterprise. Chekov clearly suspected that they'd only been serving the Admiral synthetic food...and that he hadn't been eating.
"Pavel had more to do with it than our chef," Kirk admitted as the man began curiously pulling packages out of the bag. Lunch was the largest meal eaten in Russia and the contents of the bag acknowledged that. A wide assortment of blini, soups, meats, poultry, cheese, sausage, pickled items, coleslaw-like salads and chopped fresh fruit soon filled the table's surface.
As Kirk surveyed the wide quantity of food, he understood immediately that this wasn't intended to be the 'lunch' Chekov mentioned. It was intended to feed the Admiral for days to come.
Andrie was peering into the empty bag, clear distress on his face.
"Something wrong?" Kirk asked.
"No files," Andrie commented.
A smile swept over Kirk's face in response to the man's performance. "They don't seem to be worried about you escaping," he observed, motioning to the open door.
The warm brown eyes shone. "Where would I go?"
"Indeed," Kirk agreed. "With no shoes on?" Even as he said it, he could see the carefully lined up assortment of shoes in the bedroom. More shoes in this "cell" than I have ever collectively owned. And, yet… Andrie was barefoot.
"I'm going to wash my hands. Sit: eat," the man instructed as he went into the other room.
"I already ate, Admiral."
"Andrie."
While he waited, Kirk began seeing the surroundings as more than a temporary hotel room. There were multiple stacks and spread-out books next to piles of paper: each of them clearly a research or writing project Andrie was in the middle of. Every one of them required pens and pencils for the man's long-hand work. Pilfering fairies would clearly be an issue here.
Musical instruments dotted the landscape of the suite as well. Violin, balalaika, guitar, banjo, concertina…some of them sat amongst hand-written music scores that were being worked on, some just rested on a seat where they'd been played for pleasure.
Being incarcerated had not slowed down Andrie's work. Kirk even wondered if he would regret losing the time he had alone when it was over. Well…alone with the fairies.
There's no word for privacy in Russian, after all.
When the Admiral returned, he sat down and began eating. Kirk deigned to believe the enthusiasm with which Andrie attacked the virtual buffet of food was proof of his theory that the man was starving but, in all honesty, he'd never seen Chekov approach food with any less gusto. Maybe the Ensign had been starving at one time too: sailing ships were limited in the food they could store, and Russian peasants relied on crop success.
As the Captain watched him, he recognized the familiar long, graceful hands with dark hair covering them. Unlike Chekov's though, these hands were calloused and still stained with multiple colors of ink, even after having been 'washed'.
"Sit, Captain," Andrie prompted again.
But he didn't. Kirk could sense that there was something…off…about Andrie: a discordance that was visible in his features and the uncomfortable way he held himself despite the inner peace. It's as if he's listening to a constant barrage of fingernails dragging across a chalkboard in the background.
Kirk moved away from the table and surveyed the room. He located the environmental controls tucked behind a small wall tapestry. So they didn't ruin the decor, Kirk identified ruefully. He quickly ran his hand down over the controls. The glaring overhead lights shut off, as did the ventilation system.
For the first time in his life, Kirk suddenly noticed the sudden void: an absence of a shriek coming from the lights and the missing hum from the ventilation.
Visible relief washed over the Admiral's form.
"There's enough light from the windows," Kirk explained: and immediately felt guilty that he'd invented an excuse when he knew Andrie would have been completely fine with admitting the lights were bothering him. The man had no guile.
"The environmental controls are…" he began as he approached the table. Kirk stopped himself, realizing that Andrie would probably be confounded by the computer controls. Or he would have shut them off himself. "If they turn on again, just tell the guard."
Andrie nodded half-heartedly, but his attention was elsewhere. He had stopped eating. His head was twisted sideways, his eyes cast down.
Kirk hesitated, his hands resting on the back of the chair he was about to pull out. He stood immobile: waiting…listening. Alarms somewhere? Kirk wondered. Some disturbance in the crowd of sailors outside?
Whatever Andrie was listening to, Kirk couldn't hear it.
Andrie shifted his eyes to look up at him. "The fairies appreciate that you turned off the lights, Captain."
"The…?" Kirk stopped.
Andrie's soulful brown eyes were wide and steady with an honest intensity that was painful to look at. This man - that government leaders feared - 100%, without reservation, believed there were hidden fairies populating the miniature forests along the windows.
"Maybe they'll stop stealing your pencils then," was what Kirk replied.
A spark of joy sprang through the brown eyes. "Let us hope," he intoned sincerely.
Part of Andrie's life was the preserving and retelling of folk tales and songs. He's a gifted oral historian and maybe, Kirk thought, part of the magic was his sincere belief in them. Or his ability to make you believe he believed…
Kirk settled into the seat across from the Admiral as he repacked the leftover food. He reconsidered his thoughts on Andrie enjoying this time alone. Andrie spent his life surrounded by people: the crew that had become "family" were crammed into the frigate he commanded or lived in the Admiral's home (a literal palace) in one of the Historic Districts. He was never without them and Kirk imagined being part of a crowd became a welcome environment. Perhaps the company of the fairies made this solitude bearable. And the sailors sitting just outside – a message to their beloved Commander in Chief that he was not alone, despite all indications to the contrary.
"I know they won't let Pavel visit me," Andrie commented as he set the re-packed bag on the floor. "But the Captain of the Enterprise is a grand delivery boy for lunch." Dark eyes fixed on him. "What is it you wanted to speak to me about?"
Oh, there you are, thought Kirk.
The Captain straightened slightly, a rueful smile playing over his features. "I've been reading up on you," is what he said. "You single-handedly founded the New Imperial Russian Navy when you were 18 years old. By the time you were twenty you had founded the Russian National Historic Districts as well. You have left a legacy for generations to come."
The warm eyes regarded him steadily, unblinking. "Pavel told me you were fond of reading fiction."
Kirk's eyes widened slightly. "Surely, you're not going to deny what the entire world knows."
Any answer was interrupted by the entrance of the guard. The two glasses of tea he carried looked comically doll-sized in comparison to his large, beefy hands. They grew in size as soon as he set them down on the table.
Giving Kirk a brief, but noticeably suspicious, stare – he turned back to the Admiral and addressed him briefly in Russian.
Disproval flashed over Andrie's face and narrowed his eyes slightly.
Manners, thought Kirk. Speaking in a language not everyone present understood was a lack of respect that Andrie couldn't tolerate.
Verbally, Andrie only reassured the guard. "He hasn't stabbed me."
"Yet," Kirk added into the tea as he took a sip.
A brilliant, crooked smile flashed over Andrie's face. Even in the close-cropped beard Kirk recognized it as familiar.
The entire country looks out for this man...even the guard charged with keeping him confined, Kirk thought as the guard disappeared into the hallway again.
Andrie wrapped his hand around the glass of tea and leaned in towards Kirk. "I didn't found NIRN," he confided quietly.
The Captain's eyes glinted in challenge and he also leaned towards the man. "You're lying."
Chuckling, the Admiral leaned back and took a drink of his tea. "I was a child. I wanted to sail. The only ship in the harbor wasn't sea-worthy. I founded the Russian Sail Training Academy," he concluded.
Kirk eased himself backwards in the chair. "The RSTA?" he commented with amusement.
"Not as clever as 'NIRN'," Andrie agreed easily. "I just wanted to sail that one ship: so I found people who still had the skills to fix it." He shrugged luxuriously. "Journeymen brought apprentices. Others followed: men that had the same dream, men who had no dreams of their own and were eager to borrow ours. We built dinghies and taught children to sail. No one thought we'd accomplish more: we were harmless madmen," he confessed thickly. "And then we set sail on Nelzya."
The mere phrase sent a primordial rush through Kirk: the image of a full-rigged ship, her sails all set to the wind racing through his mind. The creak of the wood, the smell of the salt air, the snap of the canvas as it caught the wind….
He caught Andrie staring at him: waiting. The wild glint in his eyes and smile playing on his face said that he knew. He knew Kirk was one of the men called by the sea.
"And?" Kirk pressed without acknowledging what they both knew had delayed the conversation.
"We were no longer an embarrassment. We were a thing of pride." The Admiral took another drink of his tea before he continued. "Did you know governments do not erase budget items? They simply stop funding them when they are no longer needed. So the once empty Russian Navy budget is suddenly funding the madmen in a sailing ship and I'm an 'Admiral' in a costume they can wave in pride." Dark eyes glinted. "Not quite as romantic as you heard."
"No," Kirk agreed. "But if you had actually announced as a teenager that you were going to re-establish one of Earth's navies, they would have locked you up as a lunatic."
"Perphaps they should have."
Kirk's hazel eyes glinted at the man not denying it was his plan all along. The self-depreciating view of his accomplishments was something Chekov had learned from his father. What other people would brag about, they both dismissed.
"I'm surprised they didn't ask you to change the name of your ship." 'Nelzya', Kirk had heard, literally meant "it isn't done." The Admiral was – continually – using his ship's name to mock the people and government who didn't believe in his dream.
A glimmer of humor traced through the man's chocolate brown eyes again.
Of course they'd asked….
Kirk leaned towards the man again, hazel eyes intense. "Let's be clear, Admiral. You founded the navy. You created the organizational structure. You wrote the Articles of the Navy. The government funded NIRN, but YOU founded it."
The man's eyes regarded him silently, the soulful eyes patient and warm. He was not a man who spoke quickly or who rushed to speak. He listened, watching, wholly absorbed by those he communicated with.
"Plagurized," he finally replied.
Kirk's eyes narrowed in curiosity.
"I plagurized the Articles of the Navy," Andrie clarified. "With centuries of navies, coast guards, and merchant marines – it would have been a waste of time to write them. I just picked and chose what I thought we needed."
Taking a long drink of tea, Kirk considered his next move.
Andrie spun his own glass of tea in his fingers, his eyes on the Captain: unblinking. Kirk felt himself being absorbed.
"Your diplomatic skills are remarkable, Captain. They do you credit."
The man blinked. Finally.
"But this is just a waste of our time. You did not come here for a history lesson. What do you want?"
Kirk replaced the tea glass on the table with a definitive 'click'. Hazel eyes locked on the Admiral's chocolate brown ones. "The Articles of the Navy," Kirk stated flatly. "You left out a provision to quit."
Amusement rippled through Andrie's eyes. "I left out a lot. I was eighteen. I left out clothes. The uniforms…"
"You're not stupid," Kirk interrupted. "You're brilliant, in fact. You just couldn't…. can't comprehend that anyone would ever want to leave the Navy: ever want to leave your 'family'."
Brown eyes bore into him steadily, the humor gone. "It didn't seem pertinent at the time."
It wasn't a trite answer. It was the truth…a deep, resounding truth Kirk could feel came from a long introspection of his soul. But Andrie's eyes didn't waver: drinking in the Captain's presence like a drowning man.
"You are deeply upset with me about this. Help me understand, Captain: why has my mistake hurt you so?"
An explosive laugh burst out of Kirk unexpectedly. Andrie didn't react and Kirk didn't apologize. He cleared his throat to regain his composure. "It's not me you've hurt: it's Pavel."
Lines feathered out from the corners of Andrie's eyes. "Captain, are you questioning my parenting skills?"
Kirk chuckled again. "Parenting skills? No. Pavel was born a celebrity: adored, doted on, spoiled. He should be a MONSTER. You…" he finished. "Should get father of the century."
"It takes a village."
Andrie's self-depreciation wasn't trite. Chekov had no compulsion to hide the fact that it was growing up with dozens of 'brothers' that was largely responsible for who he was. While a few people might think a child's current bratty behavior was adorable, there was always at least one who didn't and wouldn't let them get away with it. Sulu was often that person now that Chekov was a grown man.
"What I'm questioning, Admiral," Kirk continued, "is your skills as Commander in Chief."
Andrie's eyes didn't waver.
Kirk met them with hard hazel ones. "429 people. Thousands of activities – scheduled and – just available. An entire city in space… and do you know how your Pavel spends almost all his off-duty time on my ship? In his cabin. Most of the time, he's in his cabin." It was an exaggeration, but Kirk had his reasons.
It didn't seem to surprise Andrie. "He has always cherished his privacy."
"Do you know what he's doing in his cabin?" Kirk demanded.
"Dancing."
The steady eyes, the even tone: the man was serious. Kirk hesitated as his brain made a sudden connection. The massive number of black scuffs across the tiled floor of this 'cell' made it look – exactly like Chekov's cabin floor did most of the time. A quick glance confirmed that most of the shoes lined up in Andrie's current bedroom weren't street shoes. Damn, he thought. That explains the lack of carpet in Chekov's cabin. He'd requested it.
The Captain just shook his head. "No. He's. Working. For. You."
Had this been anyone else, Kirk would have been plotting his next move in the argument: considering the possible strategies Andrie could take and what his corresponding move would be. But Andrie wasn't a typical person. He wasn't plotting: he was actively considering what Kirk had said.
"He wants to," is what Andrie finally said. "He enjoys it."
"He has a job," Kirk bit out. "Several, in fact. Chief Navigator. Spock's research assistant. He takes extension courses. He's writing a book."
It had been a quip Chekov had made about writing a book, but Kirk wouldn't be surprised if it were true. Quips were how the Navigator got people to ignore facts: and he seemed obsessed with filling every moment with meaningful activities. Whatever he was doing in his cabin, Kirk knew it wasn't staring at the ceiling or watching cute cat videos.
"It's just clerical work. He is not part of the command structure."
Recent events had proven that wrong, but Kirk left it. "Ad…."
"STOP IT."
Kirk straightened, surprised by the uncharacteristic forceful command.
"I am not an Admiral," Andrie stated bluntly. "Military ranks MEAN something. You worked to earn your Captain's stripes. I may be Commander in Chief, but I am no Admiral," he repeated. "There's only one Admiral that's earned the rank in the Russian Navy," he concluded quietly. "And it is not a navy," he insisted. "It is a very large collection of living history museums. Some of them are ships."
Kirk pressed his lips together fiercely. "Andrie," he stated. "Pavel was up for a promotion in Starfleet. He's earned it." He stopped himself from elaborating why. Chekov was an adult and this wasn't a parent/teacher conference. "But I can't see wasting my time and resources developing an officer who isn't fully invested in his StarFleet career. As a commander devoted to developing your men's skills, you understand that." No one came into the navy knowing how to furl a mainsail, after all.
Andrie's eyes remained steady, passive, regarding Kirk with deep, hidden thoughts. He didn't reply.
"He took an oath to have no other allegiance…"
Eyes sparkling, Andrie's smile was swift. "You think he will have a problem when Starfleet puts 58-gun wooden warships in Earth's oceans?"
"I think he'll have a problem when he's court-martialed for violating his oath," Kirk bit out in reply.
The shine in Andrie's eyes said he didn't believe it was possible: that Kirk was grandstanding.
He was, of course. Though technically true, there was no scenario where Starfleet would put "Andriech" on public trial for such a trivial technicality. It would be a PR suicide.
Andrie dropped his eyes to his tea glass and began turning it slowly with his fingertips. "They paralyzed his vocal chords."
Kirk stilled at the seemingly odd statement out of nowhere.
Andrie's gaze remained on the swirling liquid in his tea glass: that, alone, startling to anyone who knew him. He wasn't meeting the eyes of the person he was with: wasn't completely absorbed by the company. It was, honestly, a relief to Kirk. "When he was injured they couldn't take away the pain. He was screaming in agony so constantly they paralyzed his vocal chords: to save his ability to speak in the future. Six months…he didn't utter a sound." Andrie's eyes flitted up from the glass to look at Kirk then. "The sound of his voice brings me joy."
It took Kirk a moment to push aside the utter horror of what he'd just heard. "He's a grown man," he finally said curtly. "Find other things to talk about."
The Captain stood up to leave then: but hesitated, gripping the back of the chair. "Pavel can't make this decision. You need to do it for him."
Andrie made a pointed survey of their surroundings. "Captain, I've barely got control of my own life. I'm not about to go telling someone else how to live theirs."
Does he have that on a t-shirt? Kirk wondered. Embroidered on a pillow? "You have that well-rehearsed," Kirk observed. "But I know you've spent your life fighting battles to ensure Pavel had a Starfleet career."
The chocolate eyes were steady. "I made sure he had choices. That is all."
Kirk shook his head tersely. "We can't ask Pavel to make this decision," he insisted. To do so would be….inhuman. Asking him to choose between the father he idolized and work he did so well he could do it blindfolded, or the career that he'd always dreamed of that challenged him and made him grow: it was unconscionable to give him that burden.
Andrie's eyes were unconvinced…but they were also grief-stricken. He shifted his gaze to the tea glass in front of him.
Kirk was beginning to recognize this. The man who's total, unwavering attention and gaze was on whoever he was speaking to - looked at inanimate objects when it got too real personally.
"It took us 20 seconds."
Andrie looked at Kirk over the top of the glass as he drank his tea, but the question in his eyes went unvoiced.
"It took us 20 seconds to determine that the funds you've been accused of misappropriating are your own salary…your very substantial salary."
"You think I'm overpaid?" Andrie asked, immediately finding the not-so-hidden judgement in the words.
"Prob…. Yes," Kirk answered. "Especially since it's Pavel getting your pay and not you."
Lines ever so gently furrowed out from Andrie's eyes. "You saw that – on the computer?"
"No: but it's not rocket science," Kirk observed. "And, yes, it's embarrassing it's gone on this long, but there's no need for this to have to come to this point. If it's Pavel you're trying to protect: you're clearly aware you don't need to. The public forgives him everything," he finished pointedly.
Andrie's eyes were steady on Kirk as he considered what he'd said. The Captain could tell that there was something the man wasn't sharing.
"The budget is one area where government officials and I continue to disagree," is what he finally said.
"I thought you always get your way."
"I do," Andrie confirmed with a triumphant smirk and gleam in his eyes.
"I don't care if you spend the rest of your life in prison," Kirk continued. "I care how this affects Pavel's Starfleet career. Admiral…"
The displeasure at the title filled his dark eyes. Kirk didn't care. Andrie may have objected to his place in the world, but it was his. "You need to take care of this. Pavel doesn't deserve it."
"Who does?"
Kirk began to reply, but hesitated. Outside, a voice rose above the hubbub of street noise. A man singing: loud, proud…and off key.
"Now the world will hear what we got to say…"
"Riley," both men identified in unison.
Riley's voice was almost immediately drowned out by a dozen more voices joining his.
"And our ranks will grow, and we'll kick their rear, and the world will know that we've been here…"
The Admiral chuckled, a soft smile of affection on his features.
The dozen voices had become hundreds – thousands – sweeping over the collection of sailors in the streets.
"When you got a hundred voices singing who can hear the whistle blow…."
"Newsies," Kirk identified. "A late 20th century/early 21st century musical."
Andrie seemed surprised. "You know it?"
"It's been shown in the ship's movie theater," he explained as he made his way to the windows. "A few times." He met the Admiral's dark eyes as he joined him. "Every version."
"Pavel's favorite musical," he confirmed.
Kirk said nothing for a moment, listening to the voices outside raised in joyous song.
"And the world will know that this ain't no game…"
"Of course it's his favorite. It's about how when people band together they can change the world – against insurmountable odds. Children shut down the city of New York for weeks."
Andrie grinned. "It's about how children thrashed the press."
Kirk considered it - and Chekov's life in the press' lens. With the communal theme and victory over the press, there was no way this wasn't going to be Chekov's favorite musical.
He stood at the window, listening to the single mass of voices that had overtaken the air.
"And the world will see that we had to choose, and the things we do today will be tomorrow's news…"
As the words settled on Kirk, he turned his attention to the Admiral. "Is there going to be a problem out there?" Thousands of sailors posed a significant threat if they decided to.
Andrie studied the sea of sailors outside the window. "Not until they start singing 'Black and Red' from Les Mis," he observed thoughtfully.
Kirk's eyes widened in alarm.
Andrie laughed. "It's just a song, Captain. It's what we do when we are bored."
The man's gaze suddenly shifted past Kirk. After a moment it came back to the Captain. "The fairies like the music," he said easily.
Kirk blinked hard. The man was exhausting. "And why wouldn't they?" But as he turned, he froze. The pencil swing in the fairy garden was swaying back and forth. He glanced at Andrie in surprise.
His eyes were shining brilliantly.
Well, thought Kirk. I've encountered more than my fair share of unimaginable living beings. Even in the 23rd century cryptozoologists were discovering new species on Earth that were once thought to be mythical. Maybe Andrie was hiding the fairies from them.
Kirk straightened then, setting his jaw as he prepared to leave. "If you don't make the choice for Pavel…I will."
And if it fell to Kirk, it wouldn't be the one the young man wanted. They both knew that.
As he turned to leave, he gestured to include the "jail cell" they were in. "And. Fix. This."
