THUMBING OFF the communicator switch on the wall by his head, Security Chief Pavel Chekov sat up and swung his legs off the bed. He stretched, arms high above his head, and banished any remaining vestiges of sleepiness with a huge, jaw-gaping yawn.
He had been dreaming of the Russian countryside and his Uncle Vanya's small farm outside Velikiye. Kirk's call had shattered the rest of the dream, sending it spinning into fragments. Chekov thought it had been nice. Had the Captain really said it was a Romulan space station?!
Chekov glanced at the time on his computer console as he stood. He had fifteen minutes to get himself ready, assemble a security team, gather the necessary provisions, and meet in the transporter room. Anticipation made him grin expectantly. Close deadlines and little time for preparation were the meat of his life and one of the reasons he had gravitated toward Security in the first place. He liked the fine-line tension and living "on the edge," and felt it helped keep him always on his toes, ready for anything, mentally and physically.
Mind racing, calculating how long it would take to prepare his team, he dropped to the floor.
Two dozen fast one-arm pushups got his blood pumping. Rising, he again touched the wall control for the in-ship communicator just before stepping into the shower, and cleared his throat. "This is Security Chief Pavel Chekov. Ensigns Hallie, Markson, and Leno, assemble in the main transporter room in ten minutes in preparation for landing party duty." He paused. A derelict station might mean lower temperatures. Better to be safe than sorry. "Bring your field jackets. Chekov out." He grinned with only a slight trace of malicious intent. Looked like he wasn't going to be the only one rudely awakened. Well, it was as he so often told his team … being part of the security forces aboard a starship was a dirty job, but someone had to do it.
The master of the short shower, Chekov was in and out practically before the stall tiles had a chance to become moist. Toweling his dark hair into spikes, he glanced at the time and saw with satisfaction that he had a whole eight minutes to go. He put on pants and pulled a uniform shirt on over his head. Straddling the chair before his computer console, he called up the necessary programs. First out was a short memo transmitted to the personal computers of each member of the ship's security force, the ship's log, and his own duty log, notifying the team of their chief's absence during the mission away from the ship, and putting Ensign Estano in charge until Chekov's return.
Next came a request to the quartermaster of stores, which was immediately flagged by a notation from Mr. Spock. Chekov read the brief message and nodded with satisfaction, grateful for any additional information the Vulcan could provide on the situation and happy to see that his guess on field jackets had been correct.
Communicators and handlamps, then, issued to each person on the mission, and phasers as well, of course, just in case the station wasn't as unmanned as the captain had been led to believe. Chekov was both annoyed and glad to see the recommendation for a portable generator. Though it was an unwieldy piece of equipment, Chekov had been in too many situations without one, when one would have been very handy, to complain about its addition. Besides, as Mr. Spock's note indicated, it might be their only way of accessing the Romulan computer banks.
He tucked his shirt into his pants and slipped on his field jacket. Five minutes gave him plenty of time for boots, a quick trip to Stores, and the short hike to the transporter room. He only hoped for their sakes that his chosen team was equally as punctual.
Running his fingers through his damp hair, he smoothed it to rights as he left his quarters and hurried down the corridor to the turbolift and the quick descent one level to the Quartermaster's Stores. His mind clicked over like a well-oiled machine. What were the Romulans up to this time?
Out of career-long habit and a strong vein of ingrained Scottish common sense, which left little to chance, Chief Engineer Scott ran a quick diagnostic test through the transporter console while awaiting the arrival of the away team Kirk had chosen to be beamed into the space station.
His eyes flicked over the various readouts, and dark brows bunched as thick-fingered hands maneuvered deftly across the console so much like the ones he'd known for better than half his life, and knew so well now that it was little more than an extension of his body rather than a separate unit.
The Scotsman's brow furrowed as he worked, but not out of any real concern for the machinery he tended. The transporter gave him no cause for anxiety. The equipment checked all clear, as he had known it would.
A derelict space station, the captain had said. Scott had shipped with Kirk enough years to be able to read subtle nuance in his commander's voice. If he was any judge, the tone in the captain's voice had hinted that this wasn't just your run-of-the-mill derelict space station, nor necessarily any derelict Human-built space station.
That line of reasoning led to contemplation of all sorts of interesting possibilities, and for a moment, Scotty was jealous that Kirk hadn't ordered him to participate in the exploration. The opportunity to investigate a heretofore unknown piece of hardware, particularly something as large and mysterious as a space station, awoke in the chief engineer a desire strong enough to make his back teeth ache.
But his job was here, tending the transporter module. Kirk wanted him here, to see the crew safely gone and safely home, and here he'd stay until Kirk told him otherwise, no matter how badly he wanted to get his hands on the space station and take it apart bit by bit.
The transporter room door slid open and Scott looked up from the console, suppressing a quick smile. Doing their chief proud with four minutes of their allotted time to spare, Chekov's security officers assembled before the transporter pad.
Suzanna Hallie, her petite frame misleadingly dwarfed by the height and overt power of her two companions, smiled and nodded hello to the chief engineer. "I didn't think I'd see you again so soon, Mr. Scott," she said, closing the front tab of her red field jacket.
"Never underestimate the power of Lieutenant Chekov, lass," Scott replied sagely.
"Oh, I don't!" she agreed strongly, and her grin widened when he chuckled. "I learned that lesson early on."
"I guess we all did." Daniel Markson spoke like he knew what he was talking about.
Christina Leno made up the third side of this Security triangle. She crossed the room with a restless grace, a pale-skinned, violet-eyed amazon. Nodding her greeting to the others, she cocked an elbow on the transporter console and leaned sideways, the picture of utterly feigned relaxation.
"What's going on, Commander Scott?" Markson asked suddenly. It occurred to Scotty that poor Markson had one of those faces that for years would make him appear too young even to be aboard a starship, let alone be part of its security team. He should probably grow a moustache or beard. "What's happened?"
"I'm not altogether sure myself, laddie. Even if I knew, though, it's not my place to say. That's for your commander to do."
As though Scott's somewhat stern words had invoked his presence, the door slid open again and Chekov strode in, arms laden with equipment. The security team rushed forward to relieve him of his burdens, placing the things on a nearby counter, and then snapped to immediate attention, heads high and eyes forward, backs as rigid as cabers about to be tossed at the Highland Games.
Scott grinned broadly at the lieutenant from behind the transporter console, bright eyes alight with humor as he gestured with his chin toward the security team. "They've been here awhile, Lieutenant Chekov. What do you do to them, then? Put rockets in their boots?"
"Ejector mattresses in their beds, Mr. Scott." The young Russian allowed himself the briefest smile, then turned and faced his team. "At ease." Hands behind their backs, they took the traditional open-legged stance, Markson flanked by the women on either side. Chekov swiftly, critically scanned each of them in turn. His gaze lingered longest and most sternly on Markson until the young ensign ran a hand quickly through his hair to smooth it and tugged the crease back into his pants.
Satisfied, Chekov proceeded. "Captain Kirk reports that we've intercepted a Romulan space station." His back to the transporter console, the lieutenant didn't see Scott's eyes widen with surprise nor the contemplative purse of the Scotsman's lips. However, both officers clearly saw the startlement register on the faces of the three security guards. A thousand questions brimmed in their eager eyes, and tension suddenly blossomed in the room, like dogs hot on a particularly fruitful scent, straining against confining leashes.
"The station is apparently unmanned," Chekov continued. "But we're going along in the event that doesn't prove to be the case. Ensign Estano will be in command in my absence. I'm issuing each of you a handlamp, a phaser, and a communicator." He spent the next few moments doing just that. Each security guard immediately checked the energy readings on the equipment they were given before securing the units onto their belts.
"Keep your phasers on stun," Chekov cautioned. "Mr. Spock informs me that the station is adrift and under minimal power only, so in addition to our standard equipment, I'm bringing along a portable generator in the event we need help accessing the station's computer. Unless otherwise ordered, we will stay in one group during the exploration, and you will each have a senior officer in your charge. Markson, you're assigned to Mr. Spock, Hallie will accompany Dr. McCoy, and Leno and I will stay with the captain."
"Aye, sir," they responded in precise unison.
"Are there any questions?"
"Does the captain know what the station is doing here, sir?" Markson asked curiously.
"If he does, Ensign, he hasn't decided it's something I need to know at this time. My guess is we'll find out all that and probably more once we get aboard. Anything else?" There were no further questions. Chekov nodded. "All right. Now—"
The transporter room door slid open again, interrupting anything further Chekov might have had to say. Kirk entered, followed by McCoy with his medical equipment, and Spock bringing up the rear with a tricorder. The security chief and his crew immediately came to attention. "Security personnel assembled and prepared for transport, sir!" Chekov reported smartly. He stepped forward. "I have communicators, phasers, and handlamps for the rest of you."
"Very good, Lieutenant Chekov," Kirk responded. "At ease, the rest of you."
"Captain, may I have a word with you?" Spock asked.
Kirk looked over. "What's on your mind, Spock?"
"In private, if you please." The Vulcan took several steps away from the group.
Kirk's eyes flicked toward McCoy, but the doctor shrugged with lack of understanding. "Does this have something to do with the mission, Spock?"
"Yes, sir, it does."
"Well, then, out with it. We don't need to have any secrets between team members, especially when going into unknown territory."
Spock looked about as discomfited as he ever let himself get. "I would rather—"
"Out with it, Spock," Kirk ordered and waited.
Scott got the impression that the Vulcan wanted to do nothing more than heave a sigh. His expression was almost painful when he began. "Captain, I do not think the captain will be joining us on this mission."
"What?" Kirk and McCoy chorused. Kirk looked at his first officer as though he'd grown another set of ears, and a tail to boot. "Spock, what's that suppose to mean? Of course I'm going."
"I think it would be ill advised, Captain."
Kirk started to say something, then stopped. "This isn't about that communiqué we received last week, is it?"
"It is precisely that."
"Oh!" Kirk held up his hands, evidently relieved. "Well, we don't have to worry about that. It was only—"
"Captain," Spock interrupted patiently. "It was on recommendation from Starfleet Command."
"What's he talking about?" McCoy asked, curiously.
Kirk didn't look as though he wanted to answer at first. He did as much squirming as a person could do without moving, then turned toward the doctor. "Oh, it's just this message we received from Starfleet Command. They're recommending that captains should avoid routinely going out with landing parties, leaving the brunt of these duties to their first officers and the security teams."
"Well, it's about time!"
Kirk stared at McCoy. "Et tu, Bones? What do you mean, 'it's about time'?"
The doctor folded his arms and cocked a hip to one side. "Well, I always thought it was damned foolish of them to allow all the flag officers to participate in landing parties. What if some catastrophe took place and left the ship and crew without command personnel?" McCoy grinned to soften his words. "Sorry, Jim. Much as I thought I'd never say it, I'm on Spock's side."
"Thank you, Dr. McCoy."
"Sorry, my—! I'm not going to adhere to it, Bones!" Kirk vowed stubbornly. "And I won't be breaking protocol. It's not policy yet."
"No, Captain," Spock agreed. "It is not policy at this time. However, it did come as a strong suggestion from Starfleet that we begin implementing the idea in order to see how well it works."
"I'll consider it. Perhaps next time," Kirk cozened.
McCoy's hands dropped to his hips. "What next time, Captain? You know as well as I do that you'll always find a way to push 'next time' back unless we make you stick to it, just because you always want to be at the forefront of everything. What's the matter, don't you trust us to do a good job? Come on, Jim, let the rest of us go off and have a little fun on our own, why don't you?" He leaned forward and softly added, "Captain, you're not being a very good example to these impressionable young ensigns on the importance of following Starfleet's procedures—"
"It's not a—"
"—and recommendations."
Kirk was stymied. He pursed his lips, quietly fuming for a brief moment, before nodding sharply. "You're right, Bones. That's exactly what I'd do. All right, have it your way."
"Good boy," McCoy praised. "It pays to listen to your doctor now and then." He held out his hand. "Lieutenant, if you please."
Kirk refrained from further comment, watching while the doctor and the first officer readied the equipment Chekov handed them. "Now, no loitering over there," he jokingly admonished the away team when they turned toward him in readiness. "See what there is to see, then get back here and report your findings. We'll leave it to Starfleet to decide whether or not there's to be further examination at a later date. Who knows," he mused, gaze momentarily distant, focused beyond them at something only he could see. "Maybe they'll decide we need to give this find a thorough going-over." He glanced over his shoulder. "What do you say to that, Mr. Scott?"
The chief engineer's chin elevated slightly. "If Starfleet does decide to explore the station further, sir, do you not think you might find it in your heart to recommend a certain chief engineer to oversee taking her apart?" He smiled engagingly.
"You, Scotty? Take a vacation from the Enterprise? You know what they say about curiosity." Kirk smiled. "If that comes to pass, I'll see what I can do, Mr. Scott."
"Thank you, sir."
Kirk turned back and held a hand toward the transporter. "Much as it galls me to be left behind … ladies and gentlemen, if you please?"
The landing party stepped up the riser to the transporter platform and each took their place over a disc. Each member of the security team placed a hand at the ready over the butt of their phaser.
"Now, remember what I said," Kirk repeated sternly. "No hanging around sightseeing. Energize, Mr. Scott."
McCoy's mouth dropped open. "Sightseeing—" was as far as he got. The transporter hum rose to a whine, and the six travelers vanished in a scintilla of spectrumed light.
Scott's eyes flicked toward his commander, reading the expression on his face. "It's hard being left behind, isn't it, sir?"
Kirk nodded. "That it is, Mr. Scott." He turned and raised a forefinger in the air. "But mark my words, Scotty, having the captain stay behind while a landing party takes risks is an idea that is never going to pan out."