Star Trek: The Original Series: The Shocks of Adversity (15 page)

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Pavel Chekov’s head jerked as the signal chime from his cabin door sounded, and he
realized that he had nearly dozed off.

While standing upright.

In his sonic shower stall.

He muttered a Russian curse under his breath as he deactivated the cleansing head
and rushed to the bedroom, where he’d laid out a fresh uniform. By the time Sulu signaled
again, Chekov was hopping to the door on his right foot, tugging the left boot on
at the same time. He cursed again as he tipped and fell against the doorframe, and
righted himself just before the chime sounded for a third time. “Pavel, come on,”
Sulu said, as the door opened. “If
we’re late relieving Graham and Reynolds at the end of their double shift, we’ll never
hear the end of it.”

“They’re not the only ones working long shifts,” Chekov said, sounding a bit more
petulant than he would have liked. With the crew stretched as thin as it was with
repairs, in addition to having observers assigned to the
814
bridge, a lot of the
Enterprise
crew were pushing themselves to their limits, and beyond. Today would be Chekov’s
third day in a row of working alpha shift aboard the
814
, then reporting to the
Enterprise
for a second shift, before dragging himself back to his cabin to collapse.

“I know,” Sulu commiserated as they moved down the corridor to the turbolift. “But
it’s what needs to be done. And as senior bridge officers . . .”

“. . . we’re expected to set the example, yes, I know.” The turbolift doors opened,
and once the pair had boarded, Sulu took hold of the control throttle and ordered
the car to Ventral Airlock 2. “It wouldn’t be so bad if one of those two shifts wasn’t
aboard the other ship, though.”

Sulu didn’t argue with that sentiment. Nine days into their joint mission, it was
becoming clear not only that the constant, high-pressure working conditions were the
norm for the Domain ship, but that it was intentional on the part of their senior
commanders. On the
Enterprise
, the Domain crew who were given liberty to visit and enjoy the larger ship’s amenities
had proven to be personable and
pleasant. Earlier in the week, Chekov had been able to take a short meal break in
the
Enterprise
mess, and had been treated to the sight of a quartet of Liruq engineers performing
some sort of folk dance, while accompanied by science officer Rob D’Amato on violin.
The exuberance they’d displayed there, Chekov now understood, was due to the fact
that any behavior of that sort would have been unthinkable aboard their own ship.

It took several minutes for the turbolift to complete its course from the crew quarters
in the saucer section, across to the engineering hull, and then down to the ship’s
lowermost deck. From there, Chekov and Sulu lowered themselves into the open airlock
hatch, then climbed down the metal rungs that lined the short duranium tunnel that
formed the primary link between the two vessels, into the Domain vessel, and through
a set of heavy doors. On the other side, an annoyed-looking Abesian security guard
wordlessly thrust a small data slate toward them, and they both in turn placed their
thumbprints on its glasslike surface. The device gave two beeps, and the guard, still
annoyed, gestured for them to keep moving. “Thank you, and you have a lovely day,
also,” Chekov told him as they moved out of the security area.

“Pavel . . .”

“What?” he asked Sulu innocently. “I’m only trying to be a goodwill ambassador.”

The
814
’s command center was located near the core of the ship, and Chekov and Sulu had to
climb down four levels of stairs, squeezing by other crew members going on or coming
off duty, to reach their destination. Once there, Ensigns Graham and Reynolds relinquished
their posts with grateful, exhausted nods, handing off the data slates they used for
duty logs as they headed for the door at double-time pace.

Sulu sidled down the row of stations by the center’s rear bulkhead, while Chekov moved
to the first row and assumed the position behind the navigational sensor officer.
The second lieutenant currently on duty, a Goeg woman named Asmar, looked back over
her shoulder at Chekov and gave him a cold and wordless glare. “Good morning,” he
told her. She replied with a low subvocal growl before turning her attention back
to her instruments. Chekov sighed and resigned himself to what looked to be another
long, tense, and uneventful shift.

Just over two hours into that long shift, Chekov noticed Asmar stiffen in her seat
as she monitored her screens. “Second Commander,” she called out to Satrav, at his
usual position standing before the array of viewers at the front of the room. “Code
4-77, oh-one-seven-five mark eight-oh-six-three.”

“Code 4-10,” Satrav answered, as Chekov punched a search command into his data slate.
Meanwhile, Satrav spouted a series of numerical
procedures, which registered only as a long string of seemingly random numbers in
the ensign’s consciousness.
How do these people keep all these damned numbers straight?
he wondered. After a moment, the meaning of code 4-77 displayed on Chekov’s screen:
Apparent high-energy-yield event or events detected in or near primary space lane.
But what was a “high-energy-yield event”? Did that mean an exchange of weapons fire?
A ship with a warp core breach? A subspace radiation burst?
Why can’t they communicate in plain language?

Chekov dropped the slate to his side, and refocused his attention on the computer
screens Asmar was monitoring. Stepping in closer to get a better look, he placed a
hand on the back of her seat as he loomed over her shoulder. She flinched only slightly
at the invasion of her space, but maintained her own rapt attention on the information
coming in from the ship’s long-range navigational sensors. Chekov immediately spotted
the “event” that had caught the Domain officer’s attention; he studied the readings
that scrolled up the screen. These numbers—representing measurable data—he had no
trouble interpreting: it was a matter/antimatter explosion, about two light-years
distant, just off their current course heading.

“Second Commander,” came a voice from one of the stations behind Chekov. “Indications
that Civil Transport Class I/
043
is in the vicinity of the 4-77.”

“Or was,” Chekov said just under his breath, prompting a look from Asmar that was
equal parts annoyance and horror at the transport’s apparent fate. It dawned on Chekov
that his comment, as out of place as it was in this highly structured setting, could
well have been taken as cold and compassionless. But Asmar had turned her face sharply
away from him before he could apologize or offer any expression of sympathy.

Satrav turned to the display wall. Chekov noted that he was looking at one of the
small perimeter screens, which was displaying the same feed as Asmar’s station. He
studied the data for several seconds, and when he turned back, Chekov was surprised
to see that an unmistakable expression of sorrow had now washed over the man’s normally
gruff face. He looked to one of the rear stations and said, “Communications: 8-1.”
Chekov assumed, without referring to his slate, that this order was to attempt comm
contact with the transport, though from Satrav’s tone, he clearly expected this effort
to be futile. Chekov looked at the data screen again, hoping he might find something
there that could relieve the pessimistic mood now sweeping through the command center.

Then he saw it. “How large is a Class I transport?” Chekov asked Asmar.

She didn’t immediately respond, and when the Goeg turned her head, she seemed confused
by
the idea that she was being asked a direct question. “How large?”

But Chekov had already raised his data slate and accessed the Domain’s ship identification
files. The Civil Transport Class I was slightly smaller than the Federation’s
Whorfin
-class of ships, measuring 110 meters in length, with a mass of just under 150,000
metric tons. Chekov looked from his handheld device back to the readings on the navigator’s
screen. “They’ve ejected the warp core.”

“Mister Chekov!” His head snapped up at the thunderclap-like voice of Satrav, who
fixed him with a curious expression and said, “Clarify.”

“The yield of the explosion is too low,” he explained. “With a ship of that size,
a containment breach within the ship’s hull would have caused—”

“The energy output is greater than it would be for an isolated reactor detonation,
though,” Asmar said, though she did not sound too certain.

“But not that much greater,” Sulu countered, as he joined Chekov behind Asmar’s station
and examined the data as well. “Look at this spike here, and the drop-off here,” he
said, pointing to the readouts. “If you boost sensor resolution, I’ll bet you find
out there were multiple explosions happening simultaneously: the warp core, ejected
antimatter, and then one or more lesser secondary explosions.”

“Negative result to code 8-1,” the communications officer reported. The command center
suddenly went quiet, and a dark dolor fell over its entire crew.

The silence was broken by Asmar, who said, “Second Commander, I believe the human
may be right.” From the looks that statement drew from Satrav, he was even more surprised
to hear that opinion voiced than Chekov was. She continued, “The available evidence
does indicate only partial damage to the transport. It could be the communications
systems were damaged.”

“Could there be survivors?” Satrav asked, his voice now dropping to an uncharacteristic
whisper.

It wasn’t until Asmar turned to look at Chekov that he realized the non-coded question
had been directed at him. “It’s possible, sir,” he answered, “but there’s no way of
telling, not at this range.” The Goeg officer took a moment to absorb that, his eyes
going distant in thought. Chekov turned to look at Sulu, who shrugged back at him.

When Chekov looked at Satrav, he saw that the hope that had briefly sparked in his
eyes had vanished. “Code 2-45,” he said to the helmsman.

Chekov knew 2-45 was the order to resume their previous course. The sense of sad resignation
that the rest of the Domain crew now exuded because of the executive officer’s decision
was palpable. “That’s it?” Chekov demanded. “We’re not even going to investigate?”
The ensign knew the odds that there were survivors on the transport
were slim, but he found it beyond belief that the Second Commander would simply disregard
that possibility.

Satrav, who had begun to pace away, turned back. “You just told us that you didn’t
know if there were survivors or not.”

“Yes,” Chekov said, “but there is the chance—”

“And there is the chance your interpretation of the data is wrong, and they all died
in an instant,” Satrav cut him off. He scowled and shook his head as he said, “Our
current mission is to convey your vessel to Wezonvu, as Commander Laspas agreed to
do. That mission is not altered because of speculation and wishes.”

Chekov turned to Sulu again, and saw that the lieutenant was just as stunned by the
Goeg’s reaction as he was. Sulu then said to Satrav, “Captain Kirk would certainly
agree to the delay.”

“Captain Kirk does not command this vessel,” Satrav snapped back.

Chekov and Sulu exchanged another look. There was something surreal about the situation,
trying to convince the Domain officer to undertake a rescue of his own people, and
having him insist that his priority was to help the
Enterprise
, regardless of what the
Enterprise
’s officers suggested. Sulu gave him a small shrug, which Chekov took as a sign to
drop the matter, and let Satrav do as he saw fit. Chekov realized there was little
else they could
do under the circumstances, but the idea of doing nothing rankled him.

“But if there are people left alive,” Asmar interjected tentatively, “and they were
to die because—”

“Code 10,” Satrav snapped at her, and gestured to a pair of security guards who then
moved from their posts at the sides of the room toward her. Asmar meekly rose from
her seat, and Chekov gave her an apologetic look as he stepped back to make room for
the approaching soldiers.

He was caught by surprise, though, when one of the guards, a big Rokean who stood
at least half a meter taller than him, grabbed hold of the back of his collar. “Huh?”
was all he could manage to say before he found himself elevated closer to the Rokean’s
height.

Sulu, being similarly manhandled by the other soldier, managed to be a bit more articulate.
“What are you doing? You can’t just put us off your bridge like this!” he shouted
as the guards, preceded by a compliant Asmar, ushered them toward the exit.

“I cautioned you before about causing disruption of this vessel’s orderly operation,”
Satrav said. He then turned away to face the main display wall again and tapped his
ear-mounted communicator. “Laspas to Command Center,” Chekov heard him say before
they were taken out into the corridor and the door slid closed behind them.

The toes of Chekov’s boots scraped along the
deck as the guard assisted him and Sulu back up the four deck levels to the airlock.
“Our captain will hear about this,” Sulu vowed the entire way back to the
Enterprise
. If the guards cared anything about this threat, they gave no indication. For his
part, Chekov kept his mouth shut, wondering if it might have been better if he hadn’t
looked so closely at the sensor data. He wondered about a people who could heartlessly
turn away from a helpless, stranded ship.

They reached the security checkpoint, where the same Abesian was still on duty. “What’s
happening?” he asked the guards when he saw them approaching with the Starfleet officers
in tow.

“Code 10. Both of them,” the Rokean said, sounding terribly amused, as he dropped
Chekov back onto his feet.