Another story
Title: PRACTICALLY PAID LEAVE
Rating: PG
Characters: Chekov, Sulu
Pavel scanned the area around him, listening for yet another search party full of angry miners. Angry, Klingon miners, every last one of them eager to make him regret ever coming on this not-so-covert-anymore mission.
‘Is always the panty ass jobs that go to the shit,’ he muttered.
He liked the sound of the phrase, thought it was an excellent addition to his limited cache of English slang. Someone had used it when he was walking by 10 Forward not long ago, and he was still looking for an opportunity to slip it into a conversation.
Not sensing any immediate threat, he hid himself among the trees and fumbled for his communicator without taking his eyes off the path he’d just used. Closing his fingers around the thin, black metal, rectangle he pulled it out and hoped it had miraculously repaired itself after the dunking it had taken in a pitcher of unpronounceable, barely drinkable, ale.
He needed to find out where the other four members of the away were. And even though communicators were waterproof, the stuff they served at The Alco-hole, had been toxic and probably fatal to his high-tech device.
During the few, the very few, free minutes he’d had to try to use it since he fished it out, it hadn’t shown any sign of working. Mentally crossing his fingers, he wiped it clean, pressed the button and looked at it.
Nothing. No lights, no happy, little trilling sounds.
“C’mon,” he said impatiently, giving it a shake. Then, when this had no effect he slapped side of it with his gun-hand; a “when all else fails” technique for repairing electronics he’d learned from his older brothers. Unfortunately, this time, even that failed.
He leaned back against the trunk of a large maple-like tree, stunned that the only hope he had of getting off this planet alive was silently mocking him from the palm of his hand.
His only chance of escape now was that the shuttle was still where they’d left it. He subconsciously began sorting through possible routes to safety as he put the communicator back into the large pocket on the outer thigh of his pants and prepared to move out. He really liked the native garb provided on this assignment; the natives, not so much.
Just as he let it slip from his fingers, though, he heard a familiar voice call his name.
“Chekov? Ensign Chekov, are you all right?” Lt. Sulu practically yelled from the depths of the over-sized pocket.
This was not good. Professional Sulu never talked that loud and he never asked if someone was all right. Not on a mission he was leading. No, he wanted “current status” and “updates”. Rattled Sulu would, though. Rattled Sulu would also chew him up and spit him out.
Chekov hurriedly dug through the pocket -- the pocket that seemed to grow larger and less convenient each time he had to find something buried in it.
“Okay, okay, this is Chekov,” he said, after retrieving the communicator. “Where are you and where is the security team? And keep your voice down. I am making an escape and do not know who else might be nearby.”
“Making an escape?” Sulu hissed. “Why, exactly do you have to make an escape? Why did all of us have make an escape? What did you do in that bar?”
“Nossing,” Pavel winced when he heard the mispronunciation, anxiety always made his accent heavier. “I did not do anything in the bar this time. “
“This . . .? Never mind, you can tell the captain later,” his team leader said. Well he more threatened then said it, Chekov observed. He absently, wondered how many third shifts Sulu would make sure he pulled before he thought Chekov had paid for this transgression. Even though none of it was really his fault. Not if you looked at it the right way. It was essential you look at it the right way.
“Crewmen Rodriguez, Thompson, and Mitchell are all at the alternate rendezvous point. I’m almost at the shuttle. How soon can you get here?”
Great, the three newbies had gotten clean away but here he was hunted in a forest like a Cardassian vole. He let his head fall back and bounce off the trunk of the tree. Twice.
They’d had three briefings before the mission, during which they’d been told how to walk, talk, eat and drink, what towns to go to and who to avoid there. They’d even been sent extra intel in case of unforeseen complications. Briefings that, pretty much covered any contingency; except, of course, for the one that happened.
He was up a creek and had to use his hands to paddle . . . or something. “It’ll take me at least a day to get there on foot,” Chekov told him, “Longer, if those miners don’t give up and go back to their panty ass ale.”
There was a long, drawn out silence before Sulu’s voice was heard again, “Oookay. Whatever, anyway, I can’t beam you to the shuttle because they use a transporter scrambler to keep the Klingon miners from going AWOL. But, since you’re headed toward the shuttle, you should only be a couple of kilometers away from the mine headquarters. And that’s where their transporter scrambler is housed. Do you think you can deactivate it?”
“I set the phaser on high, point at the scrambler, press the button and make it go boom, yes?” Chekov pushed away from tree he’d been resting against and started in the direction of the mine headquarters.
Almost four hours later he was a stone’s throw from the scrambler. Overall he’d made pretty good time considering the circuitous route he’d had to take and the search parties he’d had to contend with.
Since he scouted this area not long after they’d landed, he’d known exactly how to locate the headquarters. In fact, when he’d been out here before he’d . . .
Better to just not think about how a spontaneous act of -- again if you look at right - generosity could spin out of control and instead become at the very best an official Letter of Reprimand. At worst, well, he saw now, how it could, alternatively, be seen as deserving of a loss of rank, reassignment to Starfleet garbage scow detail and friendlessness due to rank irresponsibility.
Still, he had to get back to the ship before any dire consequences could shower down on him so he stopped conjecturing on what might happen and focused on getting to the scrambler.
Since the entire mining operation was going to be shut down for at least a month - again, not his fault - there was nobody around except for the guards. And they were too busy trying to find out what was going on in town to really pay attention during their rounds.
He took some comfort in the fact he hadn’t been shot at for over two hours. Not since he’d climbed a tree and systematically stunned all of the miners in that last group. He knew there would be more, though. If his hometown had been infested like this one had, he wouldn’t give up. Not right away. Pavel sighed as he acknowledged to himself he wouldn’t give up for a very long time and neither would they.
A trill came from his pocket. Fantastic, the bi-hourly check up from Sulu.
“Chekov here, sir,” their barely polite verbal exchanges, that had started out as heated accusations were now frigidly civil. His favorite one was when Sulu had informed him professional Starfleet officers avoided the use of vulgar, essentially sexist sayings. And that included “pansy ass”. Numbly, Pavel had wondered if he would eventually get written up for everything he’d said or done during the last three weeks.
“Have you reached your destination yet, Ensign?”
“I’m about six meters from the building, sir. I should be all set for transport in twenty minutes.”
“Good, contact me when you’re ready. The shuttle is prepared for takeoff.”
“Yes, sir.”
He watched the guards pass by on their hourly rounds and he knew there wouldn’t be a better time to cross the six meters of open ground to the ramshackle building.
From between two closely set buildings he used a conveniently placed and quite fragrant, trash container to prop his phaser and steady his aim. He shot at the locking mechanism and blew it out. One last look around for guards and he sprinted for the door.
Slipping inside, he quietly shut the door behind him and searched the room for occupants. The room looked empty but was sure he heard something nearby.
A coo, a rattle, a soft whistle.
He shuddered and looked around in fear, then realized it wasn’t inside.
He pointed his weapon at the scrambler and kept a steady beam on it until the control panel cracked. Seconds later there was a strange, soft, yet almost high pitched “pffffftt” and a tiny stream of black smoke belched from the machine.
He pulled out his communicator and contacted the shuttle. “Ready for transport, sir.”
“Thirty seconds to transport, Ensign.”
Silently, he waited. Outside he heard a shout followed by a stream of curses his Russian grandfather would have been proud to use.
“I checked the tapes from the briefings, Captain, and the supplementary notes the team members were given and as you can see there is no mention of it,” Spock said, and pushed the notes across the table to Captain Kirk.
“Still, they weren’t on the list of approved belongings security supplied to him before the mission,” Spock added repressively, when it was clear the captain was finding more humor in the situation than was, militarily speaking, appropriate.
“How many places did he leave them?” Kirk asked, putting up a hand in an attempt to stifle the smile that was crinkling his eyes and seemed determined to take over the lower half of his face.
“As he had to deal with an unanticipated proliferation during the mission; he left as many as he could everywhere he went. Including, but not limited to Klingon bars, miner dormitories, the mines themselves. It’s difficult to determine the epicenter.”
“Eh, we’ll give him an LoR and tell him to never do it again,” Kirk decided, finally giving in to the urge to smile. He stood up and the smile became more heartfelt and just a little wicked, “If Klingons weren’t all a bunch of pansy asses they’d be able to deal calmly and maturely with a simple Tribble infestation.”
“Hey, Gertrude, how you doing, pretty lady” Chekov said, as he approached his friend’s favorite plant. “How would you like a nice, juicy -“
“Chekov, why are you here?” Sulu asked, walking toward him from behind a screen of abundant foliage.
“I am here to apologize,” he said, straightening to look Sulu in the eye. “I even brought Gertrude a treat.” He looked at the plant and saw she was leaning disturbingly close to his arm. He tossed the insect in her direction and moved away.
“I am very sorry for messing up your mission. I know it was to be simple reconnaissance and I made decisions that in retrospect were . . . that could be viewed as . . .”
Sulu’s eyebrows were slowly crawling up his forehead.
Chekov abandoned his excuses and said, “Okay, okay! I was a part of your team, you were the team leader and my poor decisions reflected on you. But, honestly, I had no idea Tribbles were ummm. . .”
“Prolific? Anathema to Klingons? Banned from all away missions?”
Chekov realized incredulous was not a good look on Sulu and he hurried to divert him, “Okay, yeah. I did not know any of that. And I am sorry. Sulu, tell me, what happened to you because of my actions? Because I will go to the captain, I will make sure he knows it was all my --”
“The worst thing that happened to me,” Sulu said, as he waved a hand to silence his friend, “was worrying I wouldn’t be able to put you back together after the Klingon miners got done tearing you apart. The captain, it seems, found the whole episode entertaining. I heard him messaging the some diplomat assigned to this quadrant and he put a really good spin on it.
“In fact, I don’t think there’ll be any repercussions for anybody. Even the mine owners aren’t complaining about the shut down. They’re too busy finding investors so they can get to the new ore deposits they found when they were clearing out the Tribbles.”
“So. So, good. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“So, we are friends?”
“Yes.”
“So, we will train together?’
“Yes.”
“So, we will laugh about this someday?”
“No.”
The End
Rating: PG
Characters: Chekov, Sulu
Pavel scanned the area around him, listening for yet another search party full of angry miners. Angry, Klingon miners, every last one of them eager to make him regret ever coming on this not-so-covert-anymore mission.
‘Is always the panty ass jobs that go to the shit,’ he muttered.
He liked the sound of the phrase, thought it was an excellent addition to his limited cache of English slang. Someone had used it when he was walking by 10 Forward not long ago, and he was still looking for an opportunity to slip it into a conversation.
Not sensing any immediate threat, he hid himself among the trees and fumbled for his communicator without taking his eyes off the path he’d just used. Closing his fingers around the thin, black metal, rectangle he pulled it out and hoped it had miraculously repaired itself after the dunking it had taken in a pitcher of unpronounceable, barely drinkable, ale.
He needed to find out where the other four members of the away were. And even though communicators were waterproof, the stuff they served at The Alco-hole, had been toxic and probably fatal to his high-tech device.
During the few, the very few, free minutes he’d had to try to use it since he fished it out, it hadn’t shown any sign of working. Mentally crossing his fingers, he wiped it clean, pressed the button and looked at it.
Nothing. No lights, no happy, little trilling sounds.
“C’mon,” he said impatiently, giving it a shake. Then, when this had no effect he slapped side of it with his gun-hand; a “when all else fails” technique for repairing electronics he’d learned from his older brothers. Unfortunately, this time, even that failed.
He leaned back against the trunk of a large maple-like tree, stunned that the only hope he had of getting off this planet alive was silently mocking him from the palm of his hand.
His only chance of escape now was that the shuttle was still where they’d left it. He subconsciously began sorting through possible routes to safety as he put the communicator back into the large pocket on the outer thigh of his pants and prepared to move out. He really liked the native garb provided on this assignment; the natives, not so much.
Just as he let it slip from his fingers, though, he heard a familiar voice call his name.
“Chekov? Ensign Chekov, are you all right?” Lt. Sulu practically yelled from the depths of the over-sized pocket.
This was not good. Professional Sulu never talked that loud and he never asked if someone was all right. Not on a mission he was leading. No, he wanted “current status” and “updates”. Rattled Sulu would, though. Rattled Sulu would also chew him up and spit him out.
Chekov hurriedly dug through the pocket -- the pocket that seemed to grow larger and less convenient each time he had to find something buried in it.
“Okay, okay, this is Chekov,” he said, after retrieving the communicator. “Where are you and where is the security team? And keep your voice down. I am making an escape and do not know who else might be nearby.”
“Making an escape?” Sulu hissed. “Why, exactly do you have to make an escape? Why did all of us have make an escape? What did you do in that bar?”
“Nossing,” Pavel winced when he heard the mispronunciation, anxiety always made his accent heavier. “I did not do anything in the bar this time. “
“This . . .? Never mind, you can tell the captain later,” his team leader said. Well he more threatened then said it, Chekov observed. He absently, wondered how many third shifts Sulu would make sure he pulled before he thought Chekov had paid for this transgression. Even though none of it was really his fault. Not if you looked at it the right way. It was essential you look at it the right way.
“Crewmen Rodriguez, Thompson, and Mitchell are all at the alternate rendezvous point. I’m almost at the shuttle. How soon can you get here?”
Great, the three newbies had gotten clean away but here he was hunted in a forest like a Cardassian vole. He let his head fall back and bounce off the trunk of the tree. Twice.
They’d had three briefings before the mission, during which they’d been told how to walk, talk, eat and drink, what towns to go to and who to avoid there. They’d even been sent extra intel in case of unforeseen complications. Briefings that, pretty much covered any contingency; except, of course, for the one that happened.
He was up a creek and had to use his hands to paddle . . . or something. “It’ll take me at least a day to get there on foot,” Chekov told him, “Longer, if those miners don’t give up and go back to their panty ass ale.”
There was a long, drawn out silence before Sulu’s voice was heard again, “Oookay. Whatever, anyway, I can’t beam you to the shuttle because they use a transporter scrambler to keep the Klingon miners from going AWOL. But, since you’re headed toward the shuttle, you should only be a couple of kilometers away from the mine headquarters. And that’s where their transporter scrambler is housed. Do you think you can deactivate it?”
“I set the phaser on high, point at the scrambler, press the button and make it go boom, yes?” Chekov pushed away from tree he’d been resting against and started in the direction of the mine headquarters.
Almost four hours later he was a stone’s throw from the scrambler. Overall he’d made pretty good time considering the circuitous route he’d had to take and the search parties he’d had to contend with.
Since he scouted this area not long after they’d landed, he’d known exactly how to locate the headquarters. In fact, when he’d been out here before he’d . . .
Better to just not think about how a spontaneous act of -- again if you look at right - generosity could spin out of control and instead become at the very best an official Letter of Reprimand. At worst, well, he saw now, how it could, alternatively, be seen as deserving of a loss of rank, reassignment to Starfleet garbage scow detail and friendlessness due to rank irresponsibility.
Still, he had to get back to the ship before any dire consequences could shower down on him so he stopped conjecturing on what might happen and focused on getting to the scrambler.
Since the entire mining operation was going to be shut down for at least a month - again, not his fault - there was nobody around except for the guards. And they were too busy trying to find out what was going on in town to really pay attention during their rounds.
He took some comfort in the fact he hadn’t been shot at for over two hours. Not since he’d climbed a tree and systematically stunned all of the miners in that last group. He knew there would be more, though. If his hometown had been infested like this one had, he wouldn’t give up. Not right away. Pavel sighed as he acknowledged to himself he wouldn’t give up for a very long time and neither would they.
A trill came from his pocket. Fantastic, the bi-hourly check up from Sulu.
“Chekov here, sir,” their barely polite verbal exchanges, that had started out as heated accusations were now frigidly civil. His favorite one was when Sulu had informed him professional Starfleet officers avoided the use of vulgar, essentially sexist sayings. And that included “pansy ass”. Numbly, Pavel had wondered if he would eventually get written up for everything he’d said or done during the last three weeks.
“Have you reached your destination yet, Ensign?”
“I’m about six meters from the building, sir. I should be all set for transport in twenty minutes.”
“Good, contact me when you’re ready. The shuttle is prepared for takeoff.”
“Yes, sir.”
He watched the guards pass by on their hourly rounds and he knew there wouldn’t be a better time to cross the six meters of open ground to the ramshackle building.
From between two closely set buildings he used a conveniently placed and quite fragrant, trash container to prop his phaser and steady his aim. He shot at the locking mechanism and blew it out. One last look around for guards and he sprinted for the door.
Slipping inside, he quietly shut the door behind him and searched the room for occupants. The room looked empty but was sure he heard something nearby.
A coo, a rattle, a soft whistle.
He shuddered and looked around in fear, then realized it wasn’t inside.
He pointed his weapon at the scrambler and kept a steady beam on it until the control panel cracked. Seconds later there was a strange, soft, yet almost high pitched “pffffftt” and a tiny stream of black smoke belched from the machine.
He pulled out his communicator and contacted the shuttle. “Ready for transport, sir.”
“Thirty seconds to transport, Ensign.”
Silently, he waited. Outside he heard a shout followed by a stream of curses his Russian grandfather would have been proud to use.
“I checked the tapes from the briefings, Captain, and the supplementary notes the team members were given and as you can see there is no mention of it,” Spock said, and pushed the notes across the table to Captain Kirk.
“Still, they weren’t on the list of approved belongings security supplied to him before the mission,” Spock added repressively, when it was clear the captain was finding more humor in the situation than was, militarily speaking, appropriate.
“How many places did he leave them?” Kirk asked, putting up a hand in an attempt to stifle the smile that was crinkling his eyes and seemed determined to take over the lower half of his face.
“As he had to deal with an unanticipated proliferation during the mission; he left as many as he could everywhere he went. Including, but not limited to Klingon bars, miner dormitories, the mines themselves. It’s difficult to determine the epicenter.”
“Eh, we’ll give him an LoR and tell him to never do it again,” Kirk decided, finally giving in to the urge to smile. He stood up and the smile became more heartfelt and just a little wicked, “If Klingons weren’t all a bunch of pansy asses they’d be able to deal calmly and maturely with a simple Tribble infestation.”
“Hey, Gertrude, how you doing, pretty lady” Chekov said, as he approached his friend’s favorite plant. “How would you like a nice, juicy -“
“Chekov, why are you here?” Sulu asked, walking toward him from behind a screen of abundant foliage.
“I am here to apologize,” he said, straightening to look Sulu in the eye. “I even brought Gertrude a treat.” He looked at the plant and saw she was leaning disturbingly close to his arm. He tossed the insect in her direction and moved away.
“I am very sorry for messing up your mission. I know it was to be simple reconnaissance and I made decisions that in retrospect were . . . that could be viewed as . . .”
Sulu’s eyebrows were slowly crawling up his forehead.
Chekov abandoned his excuses and said, “Okay, okay! I was a part of your team, you were the team leader and my poor decisions reflected on you. But, honestly, I had no idea Tribbles were ummm. . .”
“Prolific? Anathema to Klingons? Banned from all away missions?”
Chekov realized incredulous was not a good look on Sulu and he hurried to divert him, “Okay, yeah. I did not know any of that. And I am sorry. Sulu, tell me, what happened to you because of my actions? Because I will go to the captain, I will make sure he knows it was all my --”
“The worst thing that happened to me,” Sulu said, as he waved a hand to silence his friend, “was worrying I wouldn’t be able to put you back together after the Klingon miners got done tearing you apart. The captain, it seems, found the whole episode entertaining. I heard him messaging the some diplomat assigned to this quadrant and he put a really good spin on it.
“In fact, I don’t think there’ll be any repercussions for anybody. Even the mine owners aren’t complaining about the shut down. They’re too busy finding investors so they can get to the new ore deposits they found when they were clearing out the Tribbles.”
“So. So, good. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“So, we are friends?”
“Yes.”
“So, we will train together?’
“Yes.”
“So, we will laugh about this someday?”
“No.”
The End