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PS-El: Part II
At oh-eight-hundred in the morning following Lieutenant Pavel Chekov's well-intentioned abduction of a spatially and temporally-displaced teenager, Chekov is on his way to medbay to retrieve said teenager for an interview with Captain Kirk, Commander Spock, and Doctor McCoy.
His own interview had started nearly an hour and a half ago, very shortly after Kirk woke up and read Chekov's recently-submitted incident report. Chekov regrets flagging his report as urgent; perhaps he would have had time to catch a nap if he hadn't. Then again, how could he have fallen asleep with the very real threat of disciplinary action hanging over his head?
Fortunately, none of Chekov's superior officers had suggested a court-martial or stripping him of his rank. They weren't happy with him, by any means, but Kirk and McCoy had been relatively sympathetic, and Spock's main concern was Chekov's lack of communication with him or the captain. It was agreed that El was likely better off in the safety of their medbay than on the base; Starbase 17's commander, Chekov was told, is a notoriously unpleasant individual who prioritizes Federation interests, scientific or otherwise, over things like morals and ethics. That said, Chekov hadn't known anything about El when he brought her aboard, and they still only knew as much as Chapel's medical scans revealed. Captain Kirk and Spock hoped to determine what level of threat the girl posed, if any, by talking to her.
(McCoy thought Kirk and Spock were foolish for being so worried about a hungry seventeen year-old who clearly needed their help. Chekov is inclined to side with the doctor, but he realizes that he is somewhat biased.)
The Russian enters medbay. Chapel -- still on duty even though gamma shift ended hours ago -- looks up from her datapad. "Welcome back, lieutenant," she says, waving him in.
"I am still welcome?" Chekov means it as a joke, but it comes out a little too earnest to be convincing. "You have a double shift?"
"I asked M'Benga to trade shifts with me. I'd rather pull a double than explain all of this to someone else."
"You are an angel, Christine, thank you," the lieutenant replies, although he knows Chapel well enough to know that this is not strictly true. He looks towards where he left El. Hopefully she's awake... he will feel bad if he has to wake her up. "I need to borrow El, if she can be discharged. The captain would like to speak with her."
Chapel looks... relieved? "She's free to leave."
"Thank you." Chekov turns his full attention to their visitor from another time and place. "El? Would you come with me, please?"
His own interview had started nearly an hour and a half ago, very shortly after Kirk woke up and read Chekov's recently-submitted incident report. Chekov regrets flagging his report as urgent; perhaps he would have had time to catch a nap if he hadn't. Then again, how could he have fallen asleep with the very real threat of disciplinary action hanging over his head?
Fortunately, none of Chekov's superior officers had suggested a court-martial or stripping him of his rank. They weren't happy with him, by any means, but Kirk and McCoy had been relatively sympathetic, and Spock's main concern was Chekov's lack of communication with him or the captain. It was agreed that El was likely better off in the safety of their medbay than on the base; Starbase 17's commander, Chekov was told, is a notoriously unpleasant individual who prioritizes Federation interests, scientific or otherwise, over things like morals and ethics. That said, Chekov hadn't known anything about El when he brought her aboard, and they still only knew as much as Chapel's medical scans revealed. Captain Kirk and Spock hoped to determine what level of threat the girl posed, if any, by talking to her.
(McCoy thought Kirk and Spock were foolish for being so worried about a hungry seventeen year-old who clearly needed their help. Chekov is inclined to side with the doctor, but he realizes that he is somewhat biased.)
The Russian enters medbay. Chapel -- still on duty even though gamma shift ended hours ago -- looks up from her datapad. "Welcome back, lieutenant," she says, waving him in.
"I am still welcome?" Chekov means it as a joke, but it comes out a little too earnest to be convincing. "You have a double shift?"
"I asked M'Benga to trade shifts with me. I'd rather pull a double than explain all of this to someone else."
"You are an angel, Christine, thank you," the lieutenant replies, although he knows Chapel well enough to know that this is not strictly true. He looks towards where he left El. Hopefully she's awake... he will feel bad if he has to wake her up. "I need to borrow El, if she can be discharged. The captain would like to speak with her."
Chapel looks... relieved? "She's free to leave."
"Thank you." Chekov turns his full attention to their visitor from another time and place. "El? Would you come with me, please?"
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Chekov relaxes ever-so-slightly after El sits. This still isn't going as swimmingly as he'd hoped, but at least she seems (grudgingly) willing to cooperate and he's not currently in trouble for revealing too much about Starfleet's inner workings.
"Thank you," Kirk says sincerely. "We haven't learned much about the anomaly that spit you out -- any readings on that belong to the starbase, and Anderson's not gonna share them until I explain why my navigator was in the room when it happened and how he got back on the ship without being caught by their cams."
"I can report the incident to him immediately," Chekov offers. It's a very reluctant offer; from what's been said about Commander Anderson, he won't be too inclined to forgive things like taking El to the Enterprise, leaving superior officers in the dark, and hacking the (admittedly ill-protected) security cameras on Starbase 17.
"Hell no." Kirk's answer is sharp and decisive. "You'll talk your way into a court martial and I'm not in the mood to deal with that. Leave it to me, got it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good." The captain turns his full attention back to El. "What have I learned? You're a kid from the twenty-first century, you were in rough shape when you got here, and one of the toughest doctors in the fleet described you as... what was it Christine said, Bones?"
"'Inexplicably unnerving,'" McCoy replies without referencing the datapad in front of him. "That's not a crime. If it was, we'd be down a first officer."
Spock's eyebrows rise a few millimeters. "Amusing, Doctor."
"Believe it or not," Kirk says to El, tone conspiratorial, "they're worse when we don't have company over."
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She gives him a dead stare, thoroughly unimpressed with his attempts to make her feel like “one of them.”
“In other words, you haven’t learned anything.” She leans back, crossing her arms. Now she has to decide how much she’ll share. There’s no rule against telling mundanes about magic; there’s just never been a point, since it’s pretty much impossible to show magic to someone who doesn’t believe in it.
But she doesn’t have to frame it as magic, does she? Any sufficiently advanced science looks like magic and all that.
“I don’t know much either,” she says. “I was traveling through a portal to go home and ended up here instead.” A brief hesitation, then “There should be people in London who understand how the portals work. If you get me there, they can figure out what happened.”
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The mood in the room shifts from casual to serious as soon as El mentions portals.
"You're a good two, three months out from London," Kirk says. "I can drop you off at the next hub with Earth-bound traffic. Spock, when's our next scheduled layover at a major Starfleet outpost?"
"In forty-six days, Captain, if there are no delays."
"There you go. I can't guarantee you'll find what you're looking for there, though." Kirk seems genuinely apologetic. "I've got some of the best physicists in the galaxy on my ship. If you're willing to work with some of my crew, we might be able to help."
Spock, undoubtedly one of those physicists to which Kirk is referring, looks about as skeptical as he can. "That depends on the nature of these... portals, and how much similarity they bear to the transversable subspace distortions native to our universe."
"See?" Kirk says, smiling like Spock actually said something encouraging. "Experts. Spock is also the ship's lead scientist, and Chekov here published a bunch of papers on portals."
"Only two, sir," Chekov says by way of correction. He's almost as uncomfortable with this sudden (misguided) praise as the earlier tension. Having his accomplishments, however modest, pointed out does not usually make people more inclined to like him.
Kirk shrugs the correction off. It's definitely two more papers than he's had published.
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“Your vice captain’s right,” she says. “Their expertise isn’t going to help.”
Still … three months. She hadn’t expected them to drop everything to take her to earth, but they can travel faster than light! She didn’t think it would take that long. And of course all of this assumes she can even find the London enclave and that they would be willing to help her.
“But thanks,” she adds grudgingly. “I appreciate the ride to that outpost.”
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Kirk is undeterred. "Just think about it. You've got some time to kill and nothing to lose."
"Or," McCoy says, "we can stop telling her what to do. It doesn't work on teenagers who aren't already enlisted, believe me."
"Fine, meeting adjourned." Kirk claps his hands together and stands. "El, Chekov's gonna show you around and set you up with quarters and any permissions you'll need. Chekov? You're confined to the ship for the rest of our stay. You're with me, Spock. We're going to have a chat with Commander Anderson."
And with that, the captain and first officer head out. Chekov doubts that he's entirely off the hook for his actions; if things don't go well over on Starbase 17, he's sure he'll be called back for another round of questioning. He'll take the reprieve even if it's necessary. He's so grateful, in fact, that he goes about collecting the empty coffee mugs without being ordered to.
McCoy lingers, fiddling absently with his datapad. "Sorry about all this," he tells El. "I told Jim to keep it casual, but God forbid he do anything without as much pomp as possible."
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While she waits for Chekov to finish with the coffee mugs, she instinctively situates herself for maximum security: close enough to the door to run, but not so close that she'd be the first attacked if anything came through; far enough away from furniture that nothing could sneak up from under it to get her, and with as much space between her and the two men in the room as she could get. She's annoyed that the doctor lingers. Despite being gruff, he reminds her of her mother, and dealing with a knock-off version of the person she loves most in the world isn't something she wants to do.
"He can pomp all he wants, as long as I can get home," she says with the characteristic edge in her voice, and looks to see if Chekov is finished yet.
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Chekov dumps the cups in the recycler and then starts fiddling with the replicator and screen set into the wall next to it. He's mostly trying to look busy until McCoy leaves; he and the doctor get along well, but he doesn't really want to be fussed at for not keeping a regular sleep schedule in front of El.
"You'll get there," McCoy says, not put off by El's tone. "Jim might seem scatterbrained, but he has a way of making things work out." The doctor stands and looks back down at his datapad. "Now... while you're with us, I want you to try to eat regularly, alright? I've also got a nutrient tablet that I'd like you to take for a week or so."
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Her stomach grumbles loudly, as if it knows it's finally in a position where its demands can be met.
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"Yes sir," Chekov replies.
"And make sure you eat something too," McCoy adds, giving the lieutenant a stern look. "Something besides coffee. You look like you're about to twitch out of your skin."
Chekov winces. "Yes sir."
"Thanks." Satisfied that everyone has been scolded into eating a proper breakfast, McCoy finally starts for the door. He pauses at the threshold. The confidence that he had while issuing orders has faded into awkwardness. "Medbay's always open, El, if you need anything."
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"What are replicators?" she asks. "And can it make a fry-up with laverbread?"
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Chekov relaxes somewhat once all of his superiors are out of the room. He taps the device in front of him; it's essentially a foot-by-foot-by-foot box set into the wall with a screen next to it. "This is a replicator, or a matter conversion unit." El's request doesn't sound like food to him, but what does he know? He addresses the replicator directly. "Computer, make a fry-up with laverbread."
"Request not recognized." The ship's computer has a slightly different voice than the starbase's, but it's still flat and feminine... and apparently unimpressed with Chekov's pronunciation.
The lieutenant sighs and tries again, forming the words very, very carefully. "Computer, make a fry-up with lay-vvver-bread."
The machine makes a soft chiming sound. Light appears in the box, swirls, and condenses into a full breakfast plate (two sausages, two slabs of bacon, scrambled eggs, grilled mushrooms, beans, and fried tomatoes) and Welsh laverbread.
Chekov eyes the 'bread' curiously. "Is this correct?"
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"Yep," she sputters, "that's correct." She'd forgotten how much she hates laverbread. Luckily, there's plenty of delicious sausage to cleanse the palate.
Her mouth full and her mind whirling with possibilities, she takes a chance. "Computer, can you make a chai latte with whole milk and whipped cream?"
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Before Chekov can request utensils, El's already on to drinks. Maybe he won't need to spend too much time showing her how things work around here.
"Yes, I can." The computer does not, however, get to making.
"Here," Chekov says, sliding a Starfleet badge on a length of silver chain towards El. The insignia looks similar to the one that he has pinned to his uniform, just without a division emblem in the middle. "This is your comm badge. I have already connected it to your profile in the ship's system and activated your permissions. As long as you are wearing it, the Enterprise will recognize you and do as you ask."
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Once she gets the fork and the drink, she resumes shoveling food in her mouth; after a moment, it occurs to her that maybe she should be conversational. "So how does the replicator work?" she asks. It must do something at the molecular level, given it's orders of magnitude better than the nutrient-slurry-transmuted-into-food at the Scholomance.
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The replicator chimes and conjures up a chai latte (made to El's specifications, of course) alongside a fork. The tea is steaming, but just cool enough to drink.
Chekov requests a coffee so El doesn't have to feel awkward about being the only one doing any eating or drinking. He's pleasantly surprised by her question. "Replicators rearrange subatomic particles into pre-programmed objects. When I asked it to make coffee, it first formed the atoms that it would need -- carbon and hydrogen and nitrogen and so on -- and then it built those atoms into molecules, and those molecules into this." He takes a demonstrative sip of his ordered drink. "The food that the replicator creates is atomically identical to anything that could be farmed and cooked, but sometimes people say that they can taste a difference."
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"Where does it get the subatomic particles in the first place?" she asks around a mouthful of eggs. "And how much energy does it take?" The mana required to do that kind of transformation would be astronomical, which was why the Scholomance started with a nutrient slurry that contained everything a growing kid needed and then selectively transmuted it just enough to make you think you were eating a real food. Even then, the food selection at the Scholomance was limited because the cost of transmutation was still extremely high -- Aadhya had spent an entire week's worth of mana transmuting the slop into her Nani's special pancakes with cholar dal puree and toasted meringue. (El wonders if she can get the replicator to make that, or if it would have to be programmed with the recipe first.) The school didn't have that kind of mana to waste, so it stuck with foods that were already pretty slop-like, like scrambled eggs and mashed potatoes.
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Hopefully El won't be grossed out by the idea of waste being recycled into new things, including food. It's an extremely effective, safe, and efficient system, but even some Federation citizens -- particularly those who don't leave their home planets -- are squeamish about the idea.
"Most homes on Earth have access to enough energy to run a single food replicator, if that is a helpful measurement." As much as Chekov would love to give El exact numbers, replicators work on an energy level that was almost incomprehensible in the twenty-first century. "Simple item replicators take even less energy, since inanimate objects can be fabricated on the atomic level rather than the subatomic. And both food and item replicators take relatively little energy compared to other ship systems. Transporters -- that is the technology that we use to move people from the ship to planets when docks are not available -- use far, far more because they need to replicate matter with near-perfect precision on the quantum level. Transporting a single human requires more energy than an industrial replicator would use in the process of creating the Enterprise's entire outer hull."
Wait, did he actually answer her questions?
damn I had a longer tag in mind but I think that feelings dump would work better later in thread
"And all that energy comes from those matter-antimatter reactions?" she asks.
I assure you I do not care about tag length (as long as you don't mind the long ones)
"Mostly, yes, and all of this energy is theoretically limitless on a ship operating in parts of space with high particle densities. But mostly the Bussard collectors only supplement the deuterium and antideuterium that starships carry in their tanks."
Seeing that El has finished with her breakfast, Chekov collects her dishes and dump them in the recycler. "Would you like to see the parts of the Enterprise that you will have access to? Or I can show you to your quarters, if you would prefer to explore later."
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But again, this is all subconscious. She feeds Precious the last crumb from her breakfast and adjusts the straps of the Sutra's carrying case on her shoulder. "Let's see the Enterprise," she says. That sounds way more interesting than a bedroom.
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They step out into the hallway, which is brighter and busier than it was earlier in the day. "Alpha shift is about to begin," Chekov says by way of explanation. "It typically begins at oh-eight-hundred hours, but on a leisure schedule, it begins at ten-hundred."
If El pays attention to the people in the halls of the Enterprise, she might notice a few things: most obviously, that not all of them are in uniforms. It's lucky, really; because the crew members who are currently off-duty are wearing their civvies, El blends in fairly well. Most of the uniform shirts are red, with a stray blue shirt here and there. Chekov is virtually the only person out and about who's wearing command yellow.
If she looks harder, El will see that everyone -- from the numerous humans to the more exotic alien species -- looks very healthy. In a post-scarcity society with advanced nutritional engineering, it's easy for everyone to eat well, and Starfleet officers have the additional expectation that they will exercise to stay in peak physical condition. Even the heights of the many, many Terran officers reflect their high standards of living. Average human heights have crept upwards since the twenty-first century; Chekov, who would be on the shorter side of average in El's time, is decidedly short in his own.
And finally, the crew is young -- far, far younger than one might expect for the fleet's flagship. Most are in their late twenties or early thirties, with only a handful of senior officers (like McCoy and Scott) in their forties. In a time before Starfleet was decimated by Nero at the battle of Vulcan, it would have been unheard of for anyone much younger than thirty to rank higher than ensign on a ship of the Enterprise's caliber. Having more than half of their forces and most third- and fourth-year Academy cadets wiped out at once dramatically altered the makeup of even senior crews, and five years is not enough time to make up for that great loss.
Chekov easily slips into the role of tour guide, as it's one that Kirk has him play fairly frequently when civilians or new officers come aboard. He points out the terminals that dot the walls and shows El how to pull up a map of the ship if she gets lost. He takes them down to deck eight via turbolift, explaining that the mess and most recreational facilities are on this level.
The mess hall is populated by a handful of officers in civilian outfits. Most are drinking coffee and talking with friends; Chekov and El go almost entirely unnoticed with just a few curious glances their way. They get the same reception in the large rec room and the gymnasium. A few people offer Chekov a friendly greeting, but no one questions El's presence. The general atmosphere is relaxed -- not exactly what one might expect from a military flagship.
"It will be a little different when we leave Starbase 17 in three days," Chekov tells El as they return to the turbolift. "Most of the crew is on leave for the first time in several months. When we are in space, we are expected to be alert and in uniform when we are not in our quarters."
The turbolift takes them to deck fourteen. Chekov guides El to the final stop on their tour: a small dorsal observation lounge. "My favorite observation room is on this level. It has no replicators or holo-players, so it is usually much quieter than the others."
They enter the room, which is, at present, entirely empty. It's maybe a quarter the size of its busy counterpart on level eight, and only furnished with a drink dispenser and a few comfortable chairs. The wall opposite the door is made entirely of transparent materials, offering an expansive view of the space outside Starbase 17's dock. Chekov goes right to the window wall, happy to show El one of his very favorite ship features. He loves staring out at the stars and making constellations of the ever-changing celestial landscape, and nothing -- in his opinion, at least -- is as beautiful and awe-inspiring as the vast expanse of space.
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She finally realizes she's having a panic attack when Chekov shows her the window into space and all she can see is the void in her dorm room, that terrible wall of abstraction leading to insanity.
It doesn't even look anything LIKE the void, a dissociated part of her mind manages to think, with great irritation. This shouldn't be a trigger.
She sits abruptly to avoid fainting. She's fainted enough in front of Chekov.
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"Computer, please close the shutters," he says, keeping his tone as even and calm as possible. The ship complies and the stars disappear behind white shutters.
Chekov angles one of the chairs towards El and takes a seat. If she was one of his friends, he would put a hand on her shoulder and offer some kind of physical grounding. Since they are little better than strangers, he maintains the respectful distance recommended by Starfleet training manuals. "El? Is there anything that you need right now?"
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Later, El will be pissed off at her irrationality -- she knows how to handle panic attacks -- but right now she's in too deep. She looks at Chekov, her eyes silently, helplessly pleading.
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"You are not in any danger here," he says, falling back on command training: speak calmly but confidently, offer an external point of focus, and do not be afraid. "What you are experiencing now is frightening, but it will pass soon and you will be okay.
"Have you had a panic attack before, El?" Chekov leaves room for a reply, expecting a nod or a shake of the head instead of a verbal response.
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