CHEKOV WOKE SHORTLY after second sunrise to the rising hubbub of the survivors' camp in Founders Park. Sleepily he looked around the small, darkened boathouse utility room in which he and Spock had spent the night, mixed in among Dr. Weinstein's small hoard of supplies. Spock was lying supine on his own bedroll against the opposite wall, his eyes open. I vonder if he is avake yet, thought Chekov.
Spock did not stir when Chekov sat up, which told Chekov that Spock was asleep—or was in a state of what passed for sleep—and whatever portion of his brain the Vulcan had put on sentry duty had been ordered not to pay attention to Chekov's movements. Chekov knew of a time once, during an emergency, when Spock had managed to stay awake for weeks without resting—something he had managed to do only through his iron control of supposedly involuntary bodily functions. But Chekov also knew it had been more weeks until Spock had fully recovered from the ordeal.
Chekov had slept in his uniform, and its fabric did not wrinkle. He grabbed his personal kit and quietly left the room. He wished his body were as resilient as his Starfleet clothes; he ached all over from sleeping on the floor. The day before had been busy—in all, he'd flown four round trips between Weinstein's camp and the Enterprise for supplies, plus hours of ambulance and reconnaissance work—and three hours of sleep had not been enough. A shower is too much to ask, I know, but perhaps there is coffee, Chekov told himself hopefully. Perhaps there is ewen a lump or two of sugar for it. I vill not dare hope for a Danish to go vith it.
There was a breakfast line just outside the boathouse. Some two thousand of the refugees in Founders Park had been detailed by Weinstein for food roundup duty. Working together, the food teams had virtually cleared the northern section of New Athens of supplies and were working their way south. The park did not have stasis fields—broadcast power was out for the duration—so all supplies had to be nonperishable.
Sanitary arrangements were less formal and involved a series of long trenches dug in a soccer field next to the main camp. Modesty was up to the user; generally, modesty was ignored. Chekov was glad there was a small head aboard Columbus; there was even a sink.
The breakfast line wasn't very long this soon after second sunrise; Chekov soon made it to the big coffee urns a team had salvaged from a Sears, Roebuck in the southern part of the city. There wasn't any Danish or sugar, but there were tubs of reconstituted scrambled eggs. Chekov thought they would go down well.
The middle-aged woman serving the eggs smiled toothily at Chekov as she ladled some onto his plate. Chekov thanked her and, looking around, found a big tree to sit under; the old veteran had somehow managed to keep most of its leaves through all the troubles that had beset the city. Chekov grabbed a plastic fork from a bin with a sign that read DON'T THROW ANYTHING AWAY! and ambled over to the tree, taking care not to disturb the sleeping people he walked past and sometimes over.
He sat and relaxed, looking up into the sky. It was going to be another heavily overcast day, and that was a good thing. Chekov doubted that very many of these people had managed to bring their sunglasses with them as they fled their homes, and the overcast would save Weinstein and his people from treating thousands of cases of sunglare.
Such things led Chekov to think of Connie Iziharry. She was somewhere around here, Chekov knew, but it wouldn't be easy to find her—and Chekov was not sure he wanted to. Well, yes, he did … but he did not want to part from her again, and it would be easier not meeting her in the first place. Chekov stared into his coffee cup. I thought it might have been for real, he mused. I really thought so, this time. I am indeed—what is Sulu's English word?—a yerk.
"Hi, Pavel," came a voice.
"Hello, Connie," Chekov said, rising. "You look tired."
"Thanks," Connie Iziharry said. "So do you."
Chekov was embarrassed. "I did not mean to be rude, Connie. I vas concerned. Please forgive me."
Iziharry sighed. "No, I'm sorry, Pavel. I am tired, and it's beginning to get to me. Where's the coffee?"
"Over there." They walked back to the breakfast line together; Connie's status as a camp nurse allowed her to go to the head of the line without waiting. She refilled Chekov's cup and got one for herself.
They went back to the tree and sat silently for a while. Then Connie said, "Lucky I found you."
"I haven't been around the camp much," Chekov said. "Ve—myself and Mr. Spock—vere flying most of the night. He is still inside. I am staying close to the boathouse until I find out vhat he vants to do today."
"More of the same, I suppose."
"I imagine. But when Captain Kirk and Mr. Sulu return from McIverton, ve vill have another shuttle for recon and supply duty. I vill velcome that."
"I'll bet you will," Connie said. She paused. "Pavel, I wanted you to know. I'm planning to stay here, even after the Enterprise leaves."
Pain lanced through Chekov, but he kept his face impassive.
"I've been talking to Dr. Weinstein and a few other people. This city—the whole planet—will take years to come back from this, this disaster. They need all the help they can get. And I'm from here, Pavel—oh, not from New Athens, but it's my world—and I have to help. My blood is here."
She laughed self-consciously. "I joined Starfleet to get the hell away from here. I guess I thought they didn't need me … oh, I don't know what I thought. But I'm a good nurse, Pavel, and Saul Weinstein needs a good nurse even more than Bones McCoy."
"Have you talked to Dr. McCoy?" Chekov asked.
"Yes. He'll approve my resignation request, and he says he's sure the captain will, too." Connie paused. "Pavel, what I wanted to ask you …"
Chekov waited.
"Well," Iziharry continued, "it's like this: Navigators can quit the service, too, you know."
Chekov blinked. "Resign? Me? And do vhat?"
"Stay with me, you goof!" She was smiling … but her eyes appeared frightened of something.
Oh my dear sweet God, Chekov thought. I cannot do this, stay on vone vorld only. Not even for her. Oh, no. Vhy did this have to happen? Connie's hopeful smile faded as she watched Chekov's face. She nodded slowly. "You won't," she said flatly. "You're a wanderer. You belong out there, among the stars. I thought I did too, once, but it took all this to prove I was wrong."
She paused. "I hoped that … maybe … you'd find the same thing was true of yourself." A tear rolled down her cheek; she wiped at it. "Sorry. Anyway … I'm sorry I wasn't enough to make you stay."
"No, Connie," Chekov said quickly. "Please! You do not understand—I cannot do this thing you ask. I ask you, in return, just to think about it for a vhile. Ve only arrived yesterday, Connie, and you have decided today to stay? Is that fair to yourself? To me?"
"You don't know the nightmares I had, Pavel. I'd wake up in the middle of the night aboard the ship while we were on our way here. Death, destruction, my parents suffering; everyone I loved, horribly gone. Maybe I was screaming; I don't know. You thought I was being shy about—certain things—but I just couldn't have anybody see me like that. And when I got here, Pavel, and started working … well, all the fear and the sorrow stopped. I felt like I was doing something useful and worthwhile, maybe for the first time in my life."
Chekov at last nodded slowly.
"And you would be looking at the stars every night if you stayed here with me," Connie said. "I know I couldn't bear that." She paused. "If you ever change your mind, Pavel, you know where to find me."
She kissed him quickly. "I have to run. I love you."
And she did. Chekov watched her go, even after he could no longer see her in the gathering crowds of morning.
He stood there, silent and still, for several minutes until Spock approached. "Good morning, Ensign," the Vulcan said briskly. "I trust you are adequately rested? It is time for our check-in with the ship."
"Coming, Mr. Spock."
Not long after that, Columbus was back in the air over New Athens, on an approach course for the Enterprise.
Uhura had decided to raise hell. Her calls to McIverton over the shortwave had finally roused the night duty officer at the presidential offices, and her persistent demands that Captain Kirk speak to her had finally brought President Erikkson to the microphone. Uhura soon satisfied herself that there was trouble; Erikkson seemed—unfriendly.
And there was that mysterious trace from the middle of the continent.
Uhura put two and two together. She had seen people do that in the past and get an answer of five, but her instincts told her she was right.
And she always trusted her instincts.
It was time for Spock to take hold of things.