By
Chekov pounded
across the deck of the twentieth-century naval vessel,
The gangplank he’d been running towards
was now crowded with armed guards, prepared to chase him. He glanced over his
shoulder at the other pursuers, looking for another way. The FBI agent was
shouting at him, demanding that he halt. Gathering his choices were slim,
Chekov searched for a way out.
He spotted a
possible route and began to run headlong for it. He jumped over a pile of
crates that was covered with tarps, hoping to get the chance to beam away. He
skidded slightly on the slick deck and tried to maintain the precarious hold on
his balance. At the last second, he saw the empty barge moored far beneath him.
He cried out as he fell overboard.
By the time the
guards and the FBI agent reached the side of the deck, a pool of blood was
growing beneath the escaped Russian’s head. Someone called for a corpsman and
an ambulance.
The unconscious
mind can play tricks with you when you have a head injury. He’d always heard
that, but never really understood it. Until now. Now he was looking in shock at
his surroundings. He stood in a wide hall, one he’d never seen before. He
glanced down at his uniform. It was gold with a rank insignia:
“Ensign?” he
heard a familiar voice. He looked up to see Kirk at the door with Mr. Spock and
a security officer. This can’t be
happening, he thought. Kirk was younger, much like he’d been when Chekov
had first arrived on the
“Coming, sair,” he said, hurrying to catch up. Spock
raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Is
this a real memory, or is it something my mind has made up? He shook his
head, concerned that he couldn’t tell the difference. Since he could not
remember any of this, he decided to assume it was all new to him. He tried to
act as he had as an ensign, without the ease that the years of experience had
given him.
They
rounded a corner and entered a large meeting room. A long table stretched a
good twenty feet long, filling most of the room. Around the table were many men
in thick, colorful robes. Each man was at least six feet tall, ranging all the
way up to eight feet. Chekov suddenly felt dwarfed. Kirk stepped forward
confidently, seemingly oblivious to the imposing men.
“Greetings from the United Federation of Planets. I am
Captain James T. Kirk and I have been sent here to represent the Federation
Council to you,” he stated. “May I ask which one of you is Governor Triwey?”
A grizzled, but imposing older man took a step and bowed
to Kirk. “I am Triwey, Captain. Welcome to Tyminad,” he replied in a deep bass.
“Please make yourselves comfortable. Refreshments will be arriving soon.” He
gestured at the long table behind him. Kirk smiled diplomatically and bowed.
“I’m afraid I don’t know all of your customs yet. Is
there anywhere in particular I should sit?”
Triwey seemed impressed and peered down at the human.
“Custom asks that the leaders sit beside each other on one side of the table.
All others should sit in the blessed pattern: friend, foe, friend and so on.”
“Foe, Governor?” Kirk asked, slight worry etching a line
between his eyebrows.
“It is merely the ancient wording, Captain. I hope that
offense has not been taken.” Triwey bowed again.
“None was taken, sir,” Kirk replied evenly. Chekov
marveled at the way Kirk seemed to smooth over possible rough spots with
finesse. He hoped that someday he would have that kind of ability. What am I thinking? I know how I turn out,
and I certainly don’t become very diplomatic!
Chekov watched as Kirk sank into the too-large chair on
the opposite side of the table. Feeling slightly awkward, Chekov sat between
two other Tyminadians. He nodded to both of them politely, then returned his
gaze to the interplay taking place before him. Absently, he noted that Spock
was on the other side of the Tyminadian to his right, and a security officer
was to the left. Kirk was asking respectfully about different adornments and
decorations that littered the table and the surrounding walls.
The rest of the meeting went by without incident and
Chekov could tell that Kirk was pleased. This
is too easy, Chekov thought with suspicion. He resisted the urge to fidget
and instead focused on Kirk’s methods. At the moment, Kirk was describing what
most planets enjoyed by being Federation members.
“I understand that joining your Federation will greatly
improve our way of life, Captain,” Triwey said, stroking his short-cropped
beard. The light green hair made a quiet rasping sound as his fingers slid
across it. Chekov found the sound annoying and chewed the inside of his lip.
“My people have long grown accustomed to being hungry and cold. The aid-package
your starship Hood dropped off has
aided us immensely. To know that such a self-less action is normal among your
kind…well, we are most eager to join.”
Kirk exchanged a victorious look with Spock, who nodded
back. “That’s wonderful news, Governor. You have made my job most easy.”
“What’s next, Captain? As you say, where is the dotted
line so that I may sign?” Triwey seemed proud of his ability to quote a human
saying and grinned happily.
Kirk smiled up at the Tyminadian, who still towered over
the humans, despite being seated. Chekov absently swung his feet, feeling
slightly silly that his legs dangled a good foot off of the ground.
“I would love to give you a document to sign right now,
Governor, but I’m afraid I don’t have that authority. However,” he continued
quickly when Triwey frowned. “A Federation assembly of diplomats will be
arriving as soon as possible. They will explain everything in detail and answer
all of your questions.”
“I understand, Captain,” Triwey replied gravely. He stood
suddenly, the grin on his lean face again. “And now, I’d like to lead you and
your men on a tour of our sacred gardens.” He gestured at a set of doors and
two of his men stepped forward to open them. Immediately there was a scent of
flowers and the sound of water trickling. Chekov smiled in appreciation. Kirk
nodded to Spock and they all followed the towering Tyminadian outside.
Chekov gaped at the sight that awaited them. Plants of
every imaginable color and shape overflowed from the designated patches. The
sweet smell of nectar wove together with the musky scent of fertilizer. Kirk
looked around with a wide grin while Spock and Neal gazed at their surroundings
calmly. Neal’s eyes scanned the thick foliage for possible threats. Security, Chekov thought with mild
disgust. Hmm, I’m in security now…or
rather in the future…when I’m in the past…He shook his head, feeling
overwhelmed with the time variances.
After an hour of walking around immense gardens that
overflowed with beautiful and exotic fragrances, Kirk’s communicator beeped. He
called the entourage to a halt, flipping the communicator open with a practiced
snap of the wrist.
“Kirk here,” he said.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” said Scott’s distinctive burr.
“We just received orders to respond to a distress call.”
Kirk glanced at Spock. “Stand by, Scotty.” He closed the
communicator and turned to the tall Tyminadian. “Forgive us, Governor, but we
must be returning to the ship at this time.”
“Please, Captain,” Triwey said, managing to sound only
vaguely disappointed. “Urgent matters allow for a tour to be cancelled. We
eagerly await the arrival of the Federation delegates.”
“Farewell, Governor Triwey,” Kirk stated. Spock bowed his
head and moved until he stood just behind Kirk’s right shoulder. Chekov and
Neal took their places near the officers and waited to be beamed. “Kirk to
The four men stood still, expecting the familiar tingling
and sparkling sensations to begin. The quiet group of Tyminadians watched in
silence. When nothing happened for several beats, Kirk frowned and opened his
communicator again.
“Kirk to
“
Kirk looked towards the sky even though the daylight
prevented him from seeing his ship. Chekov twitched nervously and shot a glance
at Spock that showed him the Vulcan was at least mildly disturbed; Spock had
crossed his arms. The Tyminadians gazed at the Starfleet men in apprehension.
Finally, Scott’s voice returned. “That’s got the li’l
devil, sir.”
“What was the problem, Scotty?” Kirk asked, trying to
hide his impatience.
“Och, ‘twas a minor problem, sir. Nothing to worry about
at all.”
Kirk frowned. “Scotty,” he said sharply, annoyed at the
roundabout answer. “What was it?”
There was a small pause. “Well,” Scott said hesitantly.
“It seems that we had a tribble in the matrix.”
Kirk blinked. “A tribble, Mr. Scott? Did I hear you
correctly?”
“Aye,” Scott sounded apologetic. “The wee beastie was in
the signal buffer. But he’s out now and we can bring you up.”
“How,”
Kirk said, gritting his teeth. Chekov felt his hackles rise at the anger
underlying his commander’s voice. “How did a tribble get into my transporter?”
A long pause. “I don’t know, sir.”
Kirk sighed, the sound closer to a growl. “Beam us up,
Mr. Scott. I want answers!”
“Aye, sir,” Scott said, embarrassment coating his words.
Chekov felt the familiar tingle work its way through his
body as he disassembled. The temporary feeling of paralysis took him, then he
began to materialize on the ship and his hearing started to return.
“—Get that transtator in now!” Someone was shouting.
Chekov thought that it sounded like Scott. “Bloody—! Reverse the beam! Send
them back!”
Chekov wondered what was wrong with the transporter; it
never took this long to beam up. He felt nauseous and disoriented as the beam
faded from around him. He glanced around, relieved that they were on the
transporter stage. He sighed happily and was about to step off of the stage
when he noticed that his perspective was wrong. From his vantage point, Chekov
could see the transporter controls. He could hear Scott as he made a call to
the planet below. But somehow it was all…distorted.
“They aren’t there?” Scott was saying. He swore viciously
and punched the intercom button. “Bridge, do you read any human and Vulcan
lifesigns on the planet?”
“No, sir,” replied an unknown voice. “Is something wrong,
sir?”
Scott
hesitated. “I’ll let you know in a minute, laddie.” He clicked the button again
and ran through a quick series of diagnostics.
“Scotty,” Chekov heard a voice say nearby. He turned to
look at the captain. He shook himself and looked again. The image before him
didn’t change. Instead of James Kirk standing beside him, he saw a golden
yellow ball of fur. “Scotty,” it chirped again, calling to the Scotsman.
“Captain?” Chekov gasped. Before he could say anything
more, he felt the deck beneath him shudder. Suddenly he felt a shadow fall over
him and he looked up. And up. To his horror, he saw a mammoth-sized Scott
looking down at him in pure disgust.
“Here now, how did you all get here?” Scott said angrily.
“Bloody furballs!” He scooped Chekov up and turned to pick up three others.
Chekov gasped and struggled to free himself, but Scott’s arms held tight.
“Ensign!” Scott snapped. Chekov froze as a young engineer
ran up. Scott dumped his load of fur into the young man’s arms. “Take these to
Doctor McCoy immediately.”
Chekov watched in frightened amazement as Scott peered
down at the transporter stage. The engineering ensign suddenly turned and began
to walk out of the transporter room, cutting off his view. Chekov jostled about
in the thin arms that held him captive. This
can’t be happening! His mind chanted.
“Delivery, Doctor,” the ensign said as he entered
Sickbay. McCoy entered, scrubbing at his hair in annoyance.
“More
tribbles?” McCoy muttered. “How the hell did we get another infestation? Jim’ll
have my hide for this…Gimme those!”
He took Chekov and his companions from the unknown ensign
and dumped them into a small isolation bin. He glared down at them. Chekov
decided to try to yell.
“Doctor!” he hollered. “Doctor McCoy!”
To his surprise, his shouting got a response. “Now, don’t
you start squeaking at me! I’m not
the one who got in Scotty’s way!” McCoy stalked away, grumbling beneath his
breath.
Definitely not the response he’d been hoping for. In
frustration, Chekov turned to the others. He gazed at the gold one.
“Captain?” he asked carefully.
“Yes, Ensign,” Kirk replied. Chekov felt a shiver of fear
run over his skin. “I think we’re all here, but let’s sound off. I’ll start.
Kirk.”
“Spock,” said a black furred tribble.
“Lieutenant Neal,” said a trembling voice. The source was
a bright red tribble beside him.
“Ensign Chekov,” he said. “Sir, what happened?”
“I don’t know, Ensign,” Kirk snapped. The gold tribble
began to shuffle back and forth, the tribble version of pacing. “Spock. Any
theories?”
The black tribble seemed to draw itself up. “None at this
time, sir. There is not enough information. I need more facts.”
“Sir?” Chekov attempted carefully. “Could it have been
the tribble in the matrix? Mr. Scott said he found one there. Maybe there was
another one…” When Kirk didn’t reply, Chekov immediately regretted having
spoken up. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“No, don’t apologize,” Kirk said, his voice showing he
was deep in thought. It was frustrating, being unable to read anyone’s facial
expressions. “What do you think, Spock? Could it have been a tribble Scotty
didn’t find?”
“I find it highly unlikely,” Spock began. Chekov felt
himself deflate in disappointment. “However, it may have been the tribble Mr.
Scott found initially.”
“How so?” Kirk asked, urging Spock to continue.
“I would have to examine the matrix and pattern buffer in
order to form a theory. But from what I can speculate, it is possible a hair or
fur strand was left in the matrix. When we were brought through the buffer, the
DNA it held was combined with our own and we came out…like this. We were most
fortunate to have survived such integration.”
Chekov ignored the cold chill that erupted across his
skin as he considered Spock’s words. The very idea of combining a human and a
tribble was insane…and yet, when Spock stated it, it was almost believable.
“Okay,” Kirk said, sounding irritated. “So, how do we
undo it?”
“Unknown,”
Spock stated. There was a shrug in his voice. Chekov watched as Kirk and Spock
sat in silence, their thoughts hidden. A movement to his right made him turn
his attention that way. The red tribble, Neal, was making scratching sounds
against the side of the bin. Chekov approached him, marveling at the sensation
of a tribble’s version of walking.
“Hey,
Neal,” Chekov said softly. “What are you doing?”
The
red tribble continued to claw at the wall a moment, then stopped and replied,
“I don’t know, really. I want out of here…but I know there’s no way I can climb
out.” He sounded confused by his actions. Chekov sympathized with him.
“Logically,
these isolation bins were made so that an animal specimen could not climb out.”
The black tribble joined them, with Kirk following. “However, perhaps if we
were to climb on top of one another—”
“Creating
a human…or tribble tower,” Kirk interrupted. “It might work, Spock.”
“But
what do we do once we’re out, sair?” Chekov asked.
“We’ll
cross that bridge when we get to it, Ensign,” Kirk replied. “Come on, let’s
give it a try.”
The
four tribbles spent the next few minutes clambering over each other, trying to
find the easiest way to line up. Kirk settled on top, waiting for the slight
sway in the tower to abate. Then he looked up to see how far he was from the
rim. It was just out of reach. Chekov watched this from below Spock.
“Alright,
everybody,” Kirk called. “One at a time, I want all of us to stretch upwards.
On my mark.” He secured himself. “Lieutenant Neal, first. Now!”
Slowly, Chekov felt Neal rising below him. When the red
tribble had stopped moving, Chekov began to stretch slowly. Then Spock, then
Kirk. At last, he felt the load lessen somewhat.
“I’m out!” Kirk exclaimed.
“So, how do we
get out?” Neal asked laconically.
“Don’t worry,” Kirk said smoothly. “I’ll find something
you can climb up.” With that, he disappeared from the edge.
“In the meantime,” Spock said. “I suggest we make
ourselves comfortable.”
They climbed down and settled onto the smooth surface.
Chekov began to count backwards from one hundred, in Russian. When he’d reached
35, he glanced up to see a white material unroll down the wall. The spool
rolled past him and stopped a few feet away, or whatever passed for feet in
tribbles.
“I think this will work!” Kirk hollered, appearing at the
edge again. “Try it!”
“Ensign,” Spock summoned.
Chekov
went to the material, identifying it as bandaging gauze. He stepped onto it and
began to inch his way upwards. He concentrated on climbing, again in awe of the
tribble manner of movement. Soon, he reached the edge and clambered over to
stand beside Kirk.
“Good
work, Ensign,” Kirk congratulated him.
“Thank
you, sair,” Chekov replied; glad the captain couldn’t see his blush. They both
turned to watch as Spock began to climb up the gauze. Soon, the black tribble
was with them.
“Your
turn, Lieutenant!” Kirk called. Chekov wandered away, gazing out over the area.
They seemed to be on a shelf, which was flush against the rim of the bin they
had been in. To his left were several medical scanners and hyposprays. To the
right were a medical tricorder and his companions. He went to the edge and
glanced down. The counter far below blurred and he stepped back as a wave of
dizziness swept over him.
“Sair,”
Chekov said, approaching Kirk. “How are we going to get down and out of Sickbay
without being noticed?”
“We’re
getting down the same way we got out of the bin,” Kirk replied as Neal began to
roll the gauze back onto the spool. Chekov watched as the material appeared to
roll itself underneath Neal. “Getting out of Sickbay…is going to be tricky.”
“With
all due respect, sir,” Spock said from behind them. “Perhaps we need not solve
this ourselves. If we were to make McCoy aware that the tribbles he has are, in
fact, his lost shipmates…” He trailed off, letting them fill in the blanks.
“He
might be able to figure out how to change us back!” Kirk declared. “Okay, new
plan: we’re going to go into McCoy’s office and get his attention.” Neal
approached, pushing the roll of gauze in front of him. “But first, let’s get to
the floor.”
It
took some time, but eventually they all made it down to the carpeted floor of
Sickbay. They huddled beneath a slight overhanging edge of the cabinets.
“Alright,
people,” Kirk said, like a coach before a game. “We’re going to get ourselves
to McCoy’s office. Stay close and avoid getting stepped on, or noticed in any
way if possible. Let’s go.”
Without
any further pauses, Kirk looked left and right, then charged out into the open.
They made it to the other wall and began to shuffle towards the closed door
that led to the main office. The stopped at its edge and Kirk turned to them
again.
“Ready?”
he asked.
“Yes,
sir,” the three other tribbles replied as one. Kirk turned back and moved to the
center of the door to trigger it. They plunged into the office and beside the
low couch that was against one wall.
“Whatever
it is, leave it on the desk and I’ll sign it later!” said a low voice from the
desk.
The
door slid shut in response and a few muttered curses floated in the air. They
moved along the side of the couch until they could see McCoy in his chair, his
back to the door. He held a shot glass in his hand and swallowed the liquid in
one gulp. It was clearly not his first drink as he reached shakily for the
bottle and poured another.
“Damn
mission was supposed to be so easy!” McCoy was mumbling. His words were slurred
as he contemplated the painting on the wall before him. “Don’t worry, he says.
Piece of cake, he says. Well, it wasn’t that simple, was it?” He gulped his
drink and poured again. “You don’t need to come with us, he says,” he
continued. “Keep working on your experiments, he says. Bah!”
“Bones…” Kirk murmured. The gold tribble moved forward
slightly, his voice full of pain for his friend.
“Captain,” Spock said softly.
The
word made Kirk stop and they all turned back to McCoy as the doctor stood
suddenly. The grossly tall figure approached the four tribbles and glared down
at them.
“As
if my problems weren’t big enough, now I have to solve the mystery of the
tribbles.” He bent and scooped them onto his desk. “You know, this is all your
mother’s fault,” McCoy was saying as he slouched in his chair. “If she hadn’t
have escaped from her stasis tube and eaten that leftover sandwich…maybe then
we wouldn’t have a small infestation of tribbles.”
He
ran a hand over his face, oblivious to the soft squeaks and trills the balls of
fur were making. He lifted the bottle of whiskey and poured a finger into his
glass. Seeing that the bottle was now empty, he pursed his lips and dropped it
in a drawer.
“Now
then,” he resumed his soliloquy. “What I want to know is how Mama Tribble escaped from stasis. Should be impossible, right?
No way for the being in stasis to shut off the controls from inside. So, it was
an outside source. And what do our state of the art security logs show?” He
downed the last of his drink. “Absolutely nothing.”
He
hefted the empty glass, debating whether or not he should smash it against the
wall. Instead he carefully placed it on the desk and lay his head down. The
sound of snores soon reverberated off of the office walls.
Kirk
began to pace across the desk. “Opinions, Mr. Spock?”
The
black tribble replied, “Perhaps if Mr. Scott were to examine the stasis tube,
he would discover how it escaped.”
“No,
Spock,” Kirk said wearily. “I mean, any ideas about how to get Snoring Beauty’s
attention?”
“If
you are referring to Doctor McCoy, I would suggest we use the most obvious of
our assets.”
“Which
would be?” Kirk prompted.
“I
was referring to the writing implements and paper Doctor McCoy is so fond of
using,” Spock replied evenly.
“Brilliant,
Spock!” Kirk exclaimed. He began squeaking orders to Chekov and Neal. “See what
you can do about getting inside a drawer, gentlemen. Spock and I will be
looking on the left, you search the right. Go.”
The
four tribbles split up into two groups and went to either side of the large
blue mound of arms and hair that made up McCoy’s form. Chekov leaned over the
edge, Neal grasping him from behind.
“I
think I can reach the drawer’s trigger button,” Chekov declared. “Just a little
farther…” He grunted as he slapped the giant button. The drawer hissed open and
the two men froze as McCoy stirred.
“Mrrm
grabllop aheg,” McCoy muttered, then grew still again.
Chekov
breathed a sigh in relief. The slight movement made him slip and he fell
headlong into the drawer. He landed with a small thump and was slightly
surprised that he was uninjured, grateful for the soft tribble padding.
“Chekov?”
Neal whispered.
“I’m
fine,” Chekov whispered back. He took a look around, spotting a computer padd.
He went to it and triggered the power. The screen immediately filled with light
and a standard prompt. “Lieutenant, go get the captain. I’ve found something.”
Moments
later, Chekov was looking up at the black, gold and red tribbles. The gold one
hunkered down and called softly to him.
“This
would be perfect, but we need to get it up here so Bones will notice it.” He
paused. “Are you sure there’s nothing else down there that we could use?”
Chekov
made a quick patrol around the drawer again. “No, sair. Only the padd, a broken
stylus, and…a sock?”
“A
sock, ensign?” Spock said. Chekov could imagine the slanted eyebrow raising.
“Yes,
sair. It appears to be a standard issue black sock!” Chekov didn’t say aloud
the confusion he felt that Doctor McCoy would have such an odd item in his
office drawer.
“A sock,” Kirk mused aloud. “Chekov…see if you can start
unraveling that sock.” His words became clipped as he was taken by inspiration.
“If we can use the material like a rope, we may be able to construct a scaffold
out of it. We can bring you and the padd up at the same time!”
Chekov was once again struck by the amazing ability Kirk had
for seeing ways out of impossible situations. He ruffled through the black
synthetic material, hoping to find a loose string. He found one and began to
pull. It gave easily and soon he had made a small pile of string beside him. He
pulled faster at Kirk’s urging and finally reached the end of the string. He
took one end and tied it around the broken stylus. Then he put it on end and
gave it a shove upwards. The others caught it and secured it behind themselves.
“Okay, now tie it around the padd,” Kirk instructed.
Chekov
followed his orders as he tied it carefully, looping it so that the padd stayed
relatively flat when pulled up. He sat on the flat surface and braced himself
as the others slowly began to haul. Shortly they had pulled Chekov up far enough
so that he could climb onto the desk surface and help retrieve the padd.
Kirk
activated the padd. “Now, we just need a message to give him.” He paused and
seemed to turn to Spock. “It needs to be clear and concise. And let’s see what
we can do about getting Lieutenant Uhura down here with a translator.”
Chekov
offered to input the message while Kirk dictated. “Bones,” Kirk began. “You may
not believe this—in fact I guarantee it!—but there was an accident with the
transporter involving a tribble. You see, the result is that we were turned
into tribbles. The four of us that are on your desk are the four that
disappeared: Spock, Chekov, Neal and I. Tell Scotty, and get Uhura to bring a
universal translator to see if we can communicate further.” Kirk sighed. “Sign
it ‘Jim’.”
“Aye, sair,” Chekov replied.
“Now
that that’s done, we need to wake him up,” Kirk declared. The four men gazed at
McCoy in silence, each wondering how to go about waking him. Before anyone
could suggest their idea, the boson whistle came over the intercom.
“Attention
all hands,” Scott’s voice said from the wall speaker. McCoy stirred groggily
and sat up, blinking. “It is my sad responsibility to announce the deaths of
the following men: Captain James Tiberius Kirk, Commander Spock of Vulcan,
Lieutenant Kenneth Neal, and Ensign Pavel Chekov.” Scott paused, his voice full
of anguish. “Memorial services will be announced. Until Starfleet can send
a…new captain,” he seemed to choke out the words. “I will be in command. Scott
out.”
“Well,”
McCoy said bitterly. “That makes it official.” His gaze found the tribbles and
he glared at them angrily. “I don’t even have any bodies to prepare!” he
growled, picking up the red tribble. “And it’s all your faults! If it weren’t
for you giant piles of pocket lint—!”
The
gold tribble came forward, squawking. McCoy wiped at his eyes and leaned down
so his face was level with the tribble. “Is that really you or is the whiskey
getting to me?” The tribble didn’t reply and he sat up. “If I’m imagining this,
then I’ll be imagining
that I’m reporting to
Scotty.” He pressed the intercom button. “McCoy to the bridge.”
“Bridge
here,” said Lieutenant Uhura’s lilting voice.
“Give
me Scotty, Uhura.” He heard her acknowledge and make the connection.
“Scott
here. What is it, Doctor?”
“I
need you and Uhura to come down to Sickbay right away.” He glanced down at the
four tribbles, who were uncharacteristically silent. “Don’t ask why, just come,
please! And bring a translator, too,” he added.
The
other side of the intercom was quiet a beat. “This better be good, mon. I’ve
got plenty o’ work to do!” he threatened.
“Oh, it’s good, Scotty. It’s wonderful!”
The
connection was severed and McCoy sank back in his seat. He ran a hand over his
eyes, the remnants of alcohol disappearing as duty kicked in. A slow grin grew
on his face as he stared at the tribbles.
“Hold
on, Jim,” he whispered. “Scotty and I will figure out how to fix this!”
Moments
later, a very confused Scott and Uhura entered the main office of Sickbay.
Scott looked as if he were about to explode into Gaelic, a habit he had when he
was at his most stressful times. Uhura seemed Scott’s contradiction as she
gazed at McCoy calmly, with compassion and concern written in her dark eyes.
“Scotty,
Uhura,” McCoy greeted them “I think you two should sit down for this.”
“With all due respect, Doctor McCoy,” Scott
replied, his accent thick. “I think I’ll stand.”
“Okay,
but I warned you,” McCoy watched as Uhura sat on the edge of the couch, alertly
watching him. He started to pace. “I just got a message…from Jim.” He turned to
see them glance at each other in disbelief. “Now, I know what you’re thinking,
but it’s true. See those tribbles?” He pointed to the four tribbles that sat on
his desk, quietly purring. “They’re our men.”
Scott
approached the desk, reaching out to pick up the brown tribble. He eyed it
casually and turned back to McCoy, dropping it on the desk.
“Doctor,
I know it’s hard to accept that Captain Kirk is dead,” he began.
“Look!”
McCoy interrupted, pointing at the desk. The rest of the tribbles had
surrounded the brown one in concern.
“Are
you okay, Chekov?” Kirk asked. The brown tribble shook himself.
“Yes,
sair,” he replied shakily. He just could not get used to being treated like a
pet. It rankled him.
“See
how they gathered around the one you dropped?” McCoy reached out a finger and
touched the brown one lightly. “You may have just given someone a concussion!”
he accused. “You okay, fella?” he asked the tribble. It cooed at him.
“I’m
fine, sair,” Chekov replied automatically. He looked up at McCoy, watching the
scene unfold with great interest.
“Doctor—”
Scott said uneasily.
“I
don’t want to hear it, Scotty,” McCoy said, interrupting him again. “Please,
just hear me out.” He handed him the padd. “This was in my desk drawer before
I…fell asleep at my desk. When I woke, it was on the desk in front of me, with
that message on it.” He waited as Scott read the message, and read it again. “Now,”
he continued when Scott handed the padd back to him. “Unless someone is playing
a terrible trick on me, this is for real.”
“Doctor, have ye been hittin’ the whiskey?” Scott sounded
tired.
“Well,
I had a few drinks, yes,” McCoy protested. “But I’m not drunk!”
Scott
glanced behind him at the tribbles. “You say it was there when you woke up, and
not before. How did they get it from inside the drawer and onto the desk? They
have no arms or legs!”
McCoy turned around to look over his desk. He spotted the
pile of black string and picked it up. He turned to Scott, victorious.
“They hauled it up, using this!”
“Och,” Scott sighed. “Okay, forget that. About the
message. I want to see them type something right now.”
Uhura rose and approached the desk. She turned the
universal translator on and placed it on the surface. The gold tribble went to
it while the brown one cut across the padd’s keys. The gold one began to chirp
purposefully. The brown tribble went back and
forth over the keys for
a minute, then stopped and left the padd’s surface. Scott picked it up, reading
aloud.
“Scotty,
everything Bones said is true.” Scott shot a glance at the doctor, who nodded
happily. “We’re all here, but we’re trapped in these tribble bodies. We think there
was some tribble DNA in the pattern buffer and that that is how we ended up
this way. Spock says that could only happen if there was some sort of power
surge during the beaming process. I will keep talking into the translator in
the hopes it will be able to start putting our words into English. By the way,
the gold one is me, black is Spock, red is Neal, and brown is Chekov. Kirk.”
“Good idea, adding that bit of identification, Ensign,”
Kirk said. Chekov sighed in relief, glad his captain had thought so. “I want
the rest of you to keep talking to them with the padd while I try to get this
thing to work.”
“Aye, sir,” they replied in unison.
Scott placed the padd down on the desk, his eyes glazed
over as he thought about what Spock had said. “There was a surge…” he muttered.
“Mr. Spock,” he addressed the black tribble. “There was a surge of power when I was beaming you through. I was able to
divert it into the backups so that I could materialize you. I didn’t realize
that the tribbles that appeared instead were you four…”
Spock
went to the padd and began to type his reply while Scott spoke. When he
finished he moved back and waited patiently. Scott took the padd and read it
out loud again.
“Have
you identified the source of the surge? And if so, perhaps the key to reverting
us back is to re-create the surge and follow the same procedure again, this
time with a clean pattern buffer.” Scott nodded. “The surge originated from a
imbalance in the matter-antimatter mix. It was very slight, but it was just
enough to make everything flicker. I corrected it immediately, but I had to
replace a transtator in the transporter in the
middle of beaming.” He
paused. “With all due respect, sir, re-creating all of this will be difficult.”
“I have faith in your abilities as a miracle worker,
Scotty,” came Kirk’s voice, sudden and clear. While Spock and Scott had been
discussing the possible circumstances leading up to their accident, Kirk had
been speaking nonstop into the translator, with Uhura tweaking at it
periodically.
“Jim!” McCoy cried happily.
“Captain,” Scott said solemnly. “You don’t know how good
it is to hear your voice again, sir.”
“The feeling is mutual, Scotty,” Kirk replied. “Now, I
want you and Spock to put your heads together and see about getting us back to
normal.”
“Aye, sir!” Scott said, grinning.
Spock
went to the translator and soon he and Scott were swapping theories and
equations. Uhura left for more translators and Kirk wandered over to Chekov and
Neal.
“How
are you two holding up?” he asked, showing that familiar concern for his crew.
“Not
a problem, sir,” Neal stated evenly.
“Fine,
sair,” Chekov said absently, thinking about how nice it would be to eat
something. “Though, I am hungry.”
“Eating is out of the question, Ensign,” Kirk barked. “If
we eat, we’ll have…babies.” He paused. “That’s something I never thought I’d
say.”
“Yes,
sair,” Chekov replied, craving a big bowl of stew. He tried to shake the image
from his head, focusing on what Spock and Scott were saying instead. Kirk went
to the padd and began to type messages to McCoy until Uhura returned and passed
out a pre-programmed translator to each of them. Neal remained silent, left to
his own thoughts as Kirk and McCoy discussed possible ways of feeding them
without causing any reproduction.
Uhura
reached out and brushed her fingertips across the top of Chekov’s fur. He heard
himself unconsciously begin to purr in response, drawing a smile from the
beautiful Bantu woman’s face.
“You
know, Pavel,” she said in a light tone. “You just look like someone cut your
hair off and glued it into a ball, then claimed it was a tribble.”
“Very
funny, Uhura,” he retorted. She patted him and smiled again.
“What’s
it like?” she asked.
“It’s
weird,” he admitted. “I haven’t been able to figure out how I walk, or talk, or
anything manual. It’s disconcerting.”
“What
about the sounds you make? Is it all a language or is it like social cues?” she
leaned forward, her eyes wide with professional passion.
“I
have no idea, really,” he said. “But I have noticed that a lot more noise comes
out of me than the words I say. Maybe they are social cues, like you said.”
“That
would indicate a society, a structure,” Uhura said excitedly. “Maybe tribbles
aren’t sentient, but they could be a hive community…”
“Well,
we aren’t your average tribbles,” Chekov said, sorry to see her frown in
realization. “They may not have a language even. We may be translating only
because we’re used to English.”
“Party pooper,” she muttered, sitting back in
her chair dejectedly.
“Sorry,”
Chekov offered. He walked around the translator absently, trying to think of
how they might get this situation solved. How
could I come close to thinking of something Scotty or Mr. Spock won’t have
already discarded?
“I
wish we could just beam back down to the planet and beam up again and have
everything be back to normal,” he muttered. To his surprise the other
conversations grew silent.
“Say
that again, Ensign,” Kirk said suddenly.
“I
said I wish we could beam up from the planet and be human again,” Chekov said,
wondering what Kirk was thinking.
“Spock, have you considered that the cause of the surge
could have originated from the planet’s surface?” Kirk asked quickly.
“No, sir,” Spock admitted. “However, the initial sensor
scans did show substantial deposits
of quryminci minerals.”
“And
quryminci has been known to mess with antimatter…” Scott said softly. “Aye…the
imbalance was caused by the quryminci…which caused the surge…which led to this
mess.” He paused, pursing his lips in thought. “But this only complicates
things, sir. We can’t possibly make the quryminci do it again!”
“No,” Kirk said. “But isn’t quryminci used as
an alloy for metallurgy?”
“Aye…” Scott said slowly. A knowing grin began to form on
his face as he caught the captain’s line of thinking. “If we make some sheets
of it and put them around the transporter stage and send you all through the
transporter it should cause enough of the interference to do the trick. It
might work.”
“I volunteer for the first guinea pig,” said Chekov,
eager to be rid of his compacted tribble form.
“Okay, Ensign,” Kirk allowed. “Gentlemen, get to work, if
you please,” he said to Scott and Spock.
“Sir, if I may—” Scott said, reaching to pick up Spock.
“It would be the easiest way to convey me to the
transporter room with you, Mr. Scott,” Spock stated. Scott plucked him from the
desk’s surface and snatched the translator with his free hand. They left the
room, already talking about the experiment they were about to perform.
“Good thinking, Ensign,” Kirk said from beside Chekov.
“You may have just saved the day.”
“Thank you, sair,” Chekov said happily. Uhura winked at
him and grinned. He heard himself purring contentedly and did nothing to stop
the pleasant sound.
Roughly
four hours later, the whole group was crowded into the transporter room, eyeing
the purple walls that were closing the stage off from the rest of the room.
Scott picked up Chekov and placed him inside on the stage, then closed the
makeshift door. He went to the transporter controls and nodded to the other
three tribbles.
“We’re ready here, sir,” Scott said.
“Energize,” Kirk ordered.
They all tensed as the familiar whine and chiming sounded
from behind the walls. Chekov felt himself dissolve and he barely had time to
wonder why he had volunteered. Then Scott reversed the beam and began to
re-materialize Chekov. Chekov saw the walls take shape before him and was glad
that at least he was still alive. He held up his hands, grinning as he saw two
human hands in front of him.
“Chekov,” called Scott, his voice slightly muffled. “Are
ye alright, laddie?”
“I’m wonderful, Mr. Scott,” he replied, feeling intense
relief at the sound of his own voice. He opened the door, glad that Scott had
thought to put a handle on this side too. He stepped into the open transporter
room and flashed a grin at everyone. McCoy stepped forward, scanning him
already.
“How do you feel?” McCoy asked.
“I feel…human,”
Chekov declared. He turned to Scott, who slapped him on the back in victory.
“It worked, Scotty!”
“Aye, now let’s get the rest of ye back to normal again,”
Scott said, the joy evident in his eyes.
“You
have my go ahead,” McCoy interjected. “Not that you were going to wait for it,
but I give it anyway.”
Chekov laughed, stepping back to watch the process. He
suddenly felt a pain in his head and he leaned against the wall for support. No
one saw his moment of weakness and he was glad for it. He wondered why this
sudden headache had hit him. The dull throbbing pain was shoved down as the
captain approached him.
“Welcome back, sair,” Chekov said.
“It’s good to be back,” Kirk replied, running his hands
down his shirtfront and breathing deeply. “Keep these good ideas coming, Ensign,
and some day you’ll make Fleet Admiral!”
Chekov smiled in appreciation, then flinched as all light
faded from his vision. He suddenly found himself lying flat on his back and he
wondered briefly if he had fainted. He smelled the antiseptic scent of a
hospital and struggled towards consciousness. Someone spoke and he focused on
that voice.
“Pavel, can you hear me?,” the man said. Chekov blinked
groggily. The voice sounded familiar and he tried to make out the words. “…talk
to me! Name! Rank!”
Feeling
a bit like his head was stuffed with quickly disappearing cotton, Chekov
replied, “Chekov, Pavel.” He paused, recalling the compliment Kirk had given
him moments before. “Rank…Admiral.”
Chekov
ignored his surroundings while he gathered his thoughts. He remembered every
detail of the tribble incident clearly, as if it had happened yesterday. But it didn’t happen yesterday…did it happen at all? He thought. I’ll have to ask the Admiral if he remembers
it too…
The
End
