ST: Moments At Gol: Chekov

He didn't look like the man that Chekov knew. No, it was worse than that. Much worse. He did look like the man that Chekov knew, but like a doppelganger, like some kind of figment that crept in the corners of one's vision. He wasn't sure about going into the room, and for some minutes he hovered on the threshold, knowing that the old Spock would have turned and raised an elegant eyebrow long ago, asking what the young ensign wanted.

He laughed at that. He hadn't been an ensign in a long time, but somehow when Spock was around he still saw himself as a green recruit with unmanageable hair, and Spock as the commander who knew everything. Now he himself was a commander, Spock a captain – if one could keep a rank through death and rebirth – and he knew that commanders did not know everything, just endeavoured to pretend that they did.

A little of the laugh escaped as a kind of dry cough, and at that Spock did raise his head, turn, and lift that elegant eyebrow. But there was something far different in his eyes to the old penetrating look. He seemed lost, somehow reaching for something to anchor upon.

'This vas a mistake,' Chekov murmured, and began to retreat.

Spock held up his hand. His palm was clean and wide and lined with age, and Chekov couldn't help but be arrested by it. Just there, in his hand, it was as if Spock had never died.

'Please,' Spock said, and gestured toward a chair. He closed the book that he was reading and put it neatly on the table by his bed. No bookmark, Chekov noticed. No Vulcan would need a bookmark to remember the page.

'I am sorry, sir,' Chekov said, half smiling, opening his arms in a gesture of surrender. 'I did not mean to disturb you.'

'Very little disturbs me,' Spock said.

Chekov stood for a moment before taking a seat. Spock's eyes followed him as if they were magnetised and Chekov suddenly wondered if the Vulcan knew who he was.

'Commander Chekov, sir,' he said a little awkwardly. 'Ve served – '

'On the Enterprise, yes,' Spock nodded. 'I have fully examined the crew compliment of my former vessel.'

At that something stabbed inside Chekov's chest. The Enterprise was not just Spock's former vessel – it was a former vessel itself, existing only in memories. How it existed in Spock's fragmented memory, he could not imagine. At least his own memories were crisp and vivid.

'Then – you remember me, sir?' Chekov asked.

Spock regarded him for a long moment, and then nodded slowly. 'Pavel Chekov. You hold an enduring belief that everything of note was invented in Russia. Am I correct?'

'Vell, er – ' Chekov scratched at his ear, and then shrugged, 'Vell, everything of note vas invented in Russia.'

Again Spock's eyebrow rose, and it seemed that he was about to prepare a long rebuttal of that statement. But then he shook his head, and a sigh escaped from his lips.

'I have to thank you, Mr Chekov, for your part in the recovery of my body,' he said.

'Oh, vell, I – ' Chekov began, disconcerted by that phrase. People just weren't supposed to come back to life. It didn't happen, even in this day and age.

Spock rose to his feet, folding his robe more closely around himself and holding it there with his hands.

'Would you walk with me, Commander?' he asked. 'I have been – cautioned – about leaving my room alone.'

There Chekov thought he saw a spark of the old Spock – the Spock who would logically and efficiently get himself out of any confinement as soon as possible. He wondered if he had been caught wandering about the corridors here by the Vulcan equivalent of wardens, and escorted quietly back to his room. The Vulcans at Gol didn't seem over-endowed with the spirit of adventure.

'Oh, yes, of course, sir,' he nodded, getting to his feet hastily. 'Vhere vould you like to go?'

Spock looked at him with a striking moment of clarity.

'I have no idea, Ensign,' he said.

Chekov let the sudden demotion pass, and led the way out of the room.

******

Outside the sun was as hot as ever, and Chekov found himself squinting against the reddish light. He wasn't made for climates like this. Thank God for tri-ox, he found himself thinking, and thank God for the fact that Gol was raised high up above the plains. There was, at least, a slight breeze up here, as strong as the thin air would allow.

Chekov hesitated at the entrance to the facility where Spock was confined. The place couldn't exactly be termed a hospital – Gol was not used to tending to the sick – but it was a place for special meditation, and close one-to-one guidance for those with troubled minds. Again, the uniqueness of Spock's situation struck him. He had done some reading on this subject since their unexpected exile on Vulcan. No one had expected a Katra to be re-fused with a body. There were no contingencies in place for bodies that had come back to life and souls that needed to regain their old home – not in this modern time. The idea had been viewed almost as a myth.

Three paths led away from where they stood and Chekov looked up at the Vulcan, expecting him to take the lead. But Spock simply looked back at the Commander impassively, so Chekov shrugged and took the left hand path.

'Fascinating…' Spock murmured after a while.

They had come to a curious expanse where ancient, towering statues stood, where the ground was interlaced with geometric patterns, and a hot spring deposited minerals as a crust about the edge of a pool.

'You – er – you know this place, sir?' Chekov asked tentatively.

'I do believe so,' Spock nodded. 'Here on these sands, our fore bearers cast out their animal passions,' he murmured, his eyes distant and his hands open. 'Here our race was saved by the first attainment of Kolinahr.'

'I – don't understand,' Chekov said, hesitant to speak at all.

Spock seemed to have been transported to another time. He knelt slowly, as if his knees were troubled with pain, and put his palm flat on the patterned floor. And then, slowly, he looked up, his narrowed eyes seeking out the sun, the sky, and perhaps something else that only he could see.

'I have made my choice,' he murmured, his eyes fixed on the sky.

Despite the heat, the evening was drawing on. The ground reflected warmth like the floor of an oven, but at the very azimuth of the sky darkness was beginning to push away the red haze of the thin air. One single star could be seen up there, its light pushing faintly against the planet's atmosphere.

Then Spock stood and looked at Chekov, his gaze seeming to burn holes through the other man's skull.

'The needs of the many – and the needs of the one – are often intertwined,' he said.

'Er – yes, of course, sir,' Chekov nodded, hiding his bewilderment behind a smart military stance.

'You are outfitting a ship for return to Earth, Commander?' Spock asked.

'Er – ' Chekov faltered again. He had been warned against talking with Spock about the Enterprise and its destruction, or about the threat of a trial for violations of Starfleet regulations, which was as dry a term for a cocktail of theft, assault, sabotage, and conspiracy as he had ever heard. The Vulcans would never suggest that such a discussion could affect Spock emotionally, but they had cautioned him against disturbing Spock with unnecessary mention of certain current events.

'You are outfitting a ship for return to Earth,' Spock repeated, and now it was no longer a question.

'Yes, sir. The Klingon ship,' Chekov nodded.

Spock's nose wrinkled the smallest amount, as if reacting to a remembered smell. Then he nodded, and turned back to the path they had just come down.

'Thank you, Ensign,' he nodded. 'That is all that I wanted to know.'