Part II: Evil Chekov's Bogus Adventure

by Skazitelnitsky

"I think he's here primarily in hope of picking up girls," Lt. Moreau commented as she consulted the readings on the instrument panel in front of her and made a note in her log.

"Oh, no," Sulu insisted. But he had to smile as he leaned on the long counter where she was working in the Chem Lab for at just that moment he had been trying to figure out what it was that made women like Marlene Moreau so very attractive. It was something more than what could be accounted for in terms of the relative distribution of pounds and inches. Marlene Moreau wasn't so much prettier than other women as she was simply and inexplicably sexier than other women.

Chekov, who in point of fact actually had been partially motivated to volunteer for the Transporter modification project by the prospects of being near the fascinating new lieutenant in the science department, thought her appeal was in her gorgeous eyes. However, after spending a very pleasant quarter of an hour making meaningless conversation with her, Sulu was quickly coming to the conclusion that her voice was the key to her effortless seductiveness. Before he'd met Moreau, he'd heard Bruce Maddox sayd that he liked the way she always "sounded like she was a little drunk." This made Sulu leap to the conclusion that she was like poor, brainless Yeoman Nibiki Takiyama who always sounded and acted as if she were tipsy. Sulu now understood what Maddox had not had enough poetry in his soul to express accurately -- that Marlene Moreau had one of those sultry, throaty voices that made you think about whisky, sweet jazz, and moonlight.

"No," he continued, as if none of this had crossed his mind. "Chekov's ambitious. He's got his heart set on a command some day. And if you want to do that, you can't afford to overspecialize. He's just making sure he's getting in his hours in Science."

Moreau turned and arched a finely shaped eyebrow at him.

"And..." he admitted, "it doesn't hurt that some of the most beautiful women on the ship work here."

"Well.." She turned back to her work, unfazed by the flattery. "I guess they can use all the help they can get on this project."

"They'll get the bugs worked out sooner or later," Sulu replied optimistically.

"Later," Moreau predicted. "We just don't have the technology for routine intra-ship beaming yet."

"Don't let Scotty hear you saying that," Sulu admonished.

"I think he's the first one to admit the ship's systems are just not up to the requirements."

"That's true," Sulu agreed with a grin. "But sometimes what he says about the ship and what he'll let other people say about the ship are two very different things."

"You've got a point there," Moreau concurred. "And I know that reliable intra-ship beaming would be such a asset if it could be achieved..."

Sulu smiled. "So what can it hurt to try?"

Both of them turned at the sound of someone stumbling. Chekov was leaning heavily against the open doorway, his face white and his breathing uneven.

"Are you all right?" Sulu asked as he rushed to support his friend.

"I'm fine," the ensign replied automatically, although he was still unable to stand by himself. "I must have..."

Chekov recoiled violently against the helmsman at the sound of Moreau activating a medical tricorder she had grabbed from somewhere.

"Hey," Sulu said, alarmed at the way his friend's body trembled and the look of pure hatred the Russian shot at Moreau. "It's okay. Take it easy."

Chekov turned and gave him a look that seemed somehow disbelieving. "Yes," he said, recovering as he rather deliberately disentangled himself from the helmsman's grasp. "I'm fine now."

"Electrolyte levels are returning to normal," reported Moreau, who had been too intent on the readings from the tricorder to notice the exchange. "You'd better go to sickbay, though."

"I'm fine," Chekov repeated a little too adamantly.

The lieutenant put one hand on her hip. "Do I need to make that an order, ensign?"

In a split second, Sulu could tell that Chekov didn't intend to budge. "He's going. He's going," the helmsman said, quickly stepping in and taking the Russian by his shoulders. "We'll see you tomorrow, Marlene."

"All right," she said, then added warningly, "I'm sending these readings to Dr. McCoy."

"Okay, great," Sulu replied steering Chekov into the corridor. After the doors closed behind them, he turned to the navigator. "What's going on between you two?"

His friend looked at him blankly. "Who?"

"You and Marlene Moreau. Yesterday you'd jump through hoops of fire for her. Just then I thought you were going to tell her to go to hell."

An odd look crossed the ensign's face. "But I would never do such a thing."

He said it almost as a question. "No, I guess you wouldn't," Sulu said slowly, feeling now that he might owe Chekov an apology. "Are you all right?"

"Just a slight irregularity in the transporter sequence," the ensign replied, shrugging it off. "I feel perfectly normal now."

There was definitely something not perfectly normal about him. "You'd better go by sickbay before reporting for duty, though," Sulu insisted. "Even if you feel all right, what happened might be significant in the experiment you guys were running."

Chekov stood and looked at him for a moment. The Russian's eyes narrowed slightly. "Do you feel you must escort me to sickbay?"

"No," the lieutenant replied, although at that moment that did seem like that would be a good idea. "Not if you think you can make it by yourself."

"I'm fine," the ensign assured him in flat dismissive tone as he headed for the 'lift.

There was something strange about the way the Russian was acting. Sulu just couldn't quite put a finger on exactly what seemed unusual. "Chekov," he called impulsively as the ensign stepped into the lift car.

"Yes?" Chekov replied, looking and sounding the way he always did.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes."

"And you're going straight to sickbay?"

The ensign rolled his eyes in an unmistakably genuine Chekovian fashion. "Yes."

"You wouldn't lie to me," Sulu asked, smiling to soften the question into a joke. "Would you?"

A very un-Chekovian grin curved the ensign's lips. "That wouldn't be at all like me. Would it?"

Odd and dangerous situations can develop in a moment on the bridge of a starship, so it was with some dread and fear as well as curiosity that all heads turned at the sound of someone gasping loudly. They were relieved to see the disturbance was due only to the fact that Ensign Chekov had become so engrossed in whatever he was doing at the Science station that he had not noticed the arrival of Mr. Spock and had been taken by surprise when the Vulcan tapped him on the shoulder.

"I'm sorry if I alarmed you, ensign," the Science Officer apologised.

It was not the first time such a thing had happened. Usually the young man would smile or feel compelled to try to make a joke of such a lapse of awareness of his surroundings. This time, however, Chekov was too busy regaining control of his breathing to make any reply at all. The navigator seemed not simply startled but panicked by the sudden appearance of his superior officer.

Frowning, Spock turned towards the screen of data the ensign had been reviewing.

Chekov's hand shot out belatedly towards the button that would clear it.

The Vulcan stopped him with a look. "Why are you examining the records of recently deceased crewmen?" he asked after scanning the readout.

Chekov didn't make eye contact. He bit his knuckles nervously. "Sentimental reasons, sir," he mumbled after a moment.

Spock frowned again and took another look at the screen. "I appreciate that you worked closely with crewmen Hayes and Smith and may still feel some emotional discomfort because of their unfortunate demise, but such matters should be pursued in your own time."

For a second, the navigator gave him an odd look -- not a look that indicated he was embarrassed to have been caught, as would be expected. Instead Chekov's expression was that of a person who had just made a significant conclusion. As if sensing his incongruent response was being registered, the navigator quickly averted his eyes and delivered a properly penitent sounding, "Yes, sir."

After a moment of consideration, the Vulcan decided there was no grounds for pursuing the matter any further. "You may return to your post."

For some reason, the navigator's fist rose automatically towards his chest. He caught the gesture midway and shook his fingers out self-consciously. "Yes, sir," he said, turning towards the helm.

Sulu watched the Russian take his place at his console out of the corner of his eye. He waited until the navigator was settled and had completed updating the course heading before asking, "Are you all right?"

Chekov paused. "Yes," he said in a way that always actually meant, "No."

Something was definitely bugging the ensign. "Something you need to talk about?" Sulu invited quietly.

Chekov's left hand was on his console. He looked at the lieutenant warily over his left shoulder, seeming to purposefully be keeping that arm as a barrier between the two of them. "You want me to come to your cabin later?"

The Russian made the question sound almost... unsavory, somehow.

"Well, sure... If you want to," Sulu replied, deciding to ignore the undertones that he didn't understand.

The ensign gave a short, hollow laugh and turned back to his board.

Chekov was one of the last people on Kirk's mind when the call came, "Sickbay to Captain Kirk."

The captain sighed, wrapped a towel around himself, and wondered why he could never seem get into the shower without having to first deal with three or four calls. "Kirk here."

"Jim?" It was McCoy. "Are you on the bridge?"

"No," Kirk answered, continuing to rummage through his dresser for his Carvellian scented bath lotion. "I'm in my quarters."

"Is Chekov on the bridge?"

Kirk paused in his search to mouth this ridiculous question to himself. 'Why are you asking me?' he wanted to reply. 'I'm a starship captain, not an information booth.' Figuring this would only prolong the conversation and further delay his bath, he mentally flipped through the duty roster and answered. "No, he should have left about twenty minutes ago. Is there some problem?"

"Jim... " McCoy hesitated. "I don't quite know how to say this..."

Kirk's efforts thus far had turned up a hairbrush, three socks that didn't match, a log tape, and a rather decorative pair of women's undergarments, but no bath lotion. He sighed. "Just say it, Bones."

"Captain... There's a possibility that Chekov isn't Chekov any more."

"Sir I want to apologize for my behavior on the bridge."

Spock looked up from his meal to find Ensign Chekov standing at his table holding a cup of some sort of heated beverage. The beverage turned out to be oolong tea which the ensign deferentially sat down before his superior. The Vulcan blinked at the tea and then back at the ensign. It was almost as if Chekov was presenting it to him as a sort of appeasing offering.

"No apology is necessary, Ensign," he replied.

As if that had been a signal that he had been granted an audience, the navigator sat down in the chair opposite the science officer. "It was most unprofessional of me to be using the library computer for a personal matter while I was on duty," he stated, folding his hands in his lap in a rather formal manner.

Spock was forced to agree with a nod. "It is atypical behavior for you..." he said, softening the critique.

"..Brought on, doubtlessly, by emotional weakness," the ensign finished for him in a manner that was too blunt to be mocking.

"So I would assume." The tea was a brand that Spock preferred. It had a very pleasant smell. Deciding that it would be appropriate to accept such a courtesy from a junior officer, the Vulcan sampled the brew. "This is very good. Thank you."

Chekov smiled the briefest of smiles -- a mere reflexive movement of the lips.

"I hope," Spock began carefully, "that you do not blame yourself for the deaths of Hayes and Smith."

The ensign only looked at him.

"It was the ion storm we encountered in the Halkan system that caused the panel in auxiliary control to overload and malfunction," the Vulcan continued, "not any action that you took. Despite the fact that those men were under your command when the accident occurred, you were not the cause of their deaths. To believe otherwise is irrational."

For some reason, this made Chekov's features twist into another odd smile. He shrugged. "Aren't all humans prone to irrationality?"

"Simply because one is predisposed to irrationality does not mean that one should indulge those tendencies," Spock cautioned.

The ensign contemplated this as he watched the science officer sip of his tea. "Do you believe in alternate realities, Mr. Spock?" he asked abruptly after a few moments.

"Quantum theory postulates their existence," the Vulcan replied. "The experiences of Captain Kirk and the landing party to the Halkan council would seem to empirically confirm the existence of parallel universes."

Chekov propped his chin on his hand thoughtfully. "What sort of relationship do you suppose exists between those universes?"

"Prevailing theory posits that the relationship between alternate universes before certain branching events iscongruent," Spock said, wondering why the ensign was asking about information that he should be thoroughly familiar with. "Congruencies after divergence are arbitrarily dependant on resulting circumstance."

"You don't think they are somehow.." Chekov made a vague gesture with his fingers. "..conjoined?"

"Conjoined?"

"That a balance must be maintained," The young man elaborated, a light of enthusiasm growing in his eyes. "That events in one sphere of existence would have to be balanced by similar events that would have to take place in the other sphere of existence?"

The Vulcan shook his head. "There is no theoretical basis on which to base such a belief."

"Nature strives toward balance," the navigator argued, "in many instances."

"That is an overgeneralization based on an anthromorphisation of natural forces," Spock pointed out.

"Then you disagree?"

The Science Officer took another long sip of tea. "The idea has aesthetic appeal and certain comforting metaphysical implications, but no basis in recognized theory."

Chekov sighed. "Irrational," he concluded.

"Not entirely," Spock corrected. "But certainly unproven and unsupported at this phase of our understanding of alternate universe phenomena."

The light came back into the ensign's eyes. "But we don't know everything about parallel universes yet, do we? The existence of a stabilizing force favoring balance could still be proven."

Spock frowned as he drained the last of the cup. "Such a hypothesis would have to be rigorously examined and thoroughly tested."

"Oh, yes," Chekov agreed, smiling to himself. "Thoroughly tested."

"Ensign Chekov report to Sickbay," a voice announced over the mess hall intercom. "Ensign Chekov report to Sickbay."

"You will excuse me, sir." Chekov quite unnecessarily took the Vulcan's empty cup and disposed in a nearby processing unit. "It would seem I have a little testing to attend to."

Kirk arrived in Sickbay unshowered and ready for quick answers that he feared were not going to be forthcoming. "So, what's all this about Chekov?"

McCoy looked up from his desk. He scanned the range of material laid out in front of him as if trying to determine the best point to begin. "Chekov is part of the team working on the transporters."

"I know," the captain informed him with cheerful impatience. "And...?"

"Apparently there was some sort of mishap in the physics lab earlier. Lt. Moreau reported that Chekov came out of the testing area looking pale. She ran an tricorder over him and told him to report to sickbay."

"And you found...?" Kirk prompted.

"Well, if he'd have reported to sickbay like a good little ensign I probably would have found something," McCoy snapped back. "Moreau called about forty minutes ago to get a report on him. Chapel says she thinks she saw him in here before the shift change, but there's no record of anyone treating him."

Kirk sighed. It wasn't the first time a crewperson had been told to report to sickbay and then decided they felt fine and had no reason to wait for treatment. "Okay, Bones. I'll see Chekov gets dragged down here by the ear and gets a good rap across the knuckles for ducking out before he was released."

"I'm afraid it's more serious than that, Jim. When I went over the scan Moreau had made, there were irregularities...."

The captain was familiar with the tone the doctor's voice was taking. It was not a tone he looked forward to hearing. "Cut to the chase, Bones," he said.

"Chekov...." McCoy began, then stopped, seeming once more at a loss. "His physiology has undergone a radical change."

"The transporter," Kirk said, remembering his own accident with that device years ago. "Was he split?"

"No." McCoy shook his head. "It's not that."

"Then what?"

"He's..." McCoy spread his hands helplessly. "He's just turned into a different person."

"Come."

Chekov entered Sulu's quarters carrying a bottle.

"Hey, what's this?" the lieutenant said, examining the label of what he had at first assumed would be vodka. Instead it read Umenishiki Junmai. Rice wine... and not just any old kind either. "This is my favorite. How did you know that?"

The ensign just looked at him for a moment. Unamused. As if he suspected he was about to be tricked. Then he shrugged. "I guessed," he said, taking the bottle from the lieutenant's hands and automatically heading for the yakan as if he lived there.

"Thanks," Sulu said, somewhat at a loss.

Displaying a proficiency that the lieutenant had never before seen the ensign demonstrate, the Russian poured the sake into a decanter, filled the little kettle with precisely the right amount of water, and set the controls on the heating pad for a hair above body temperature. Sulu waited for Chekov to explain his new found interest in sake. Chekov apparently was waiting only for the rice wine to heat . He turned back to the lieutenant with two steaming cups.

The matter-of-factness of it all bothered Sulu. It was if the ensign had brought the sake not because he wanted to, but rather because he felt Sulu expected... or perhaps even demanded it.

"I didn't know you drank sake," Sulu said lightly as he accepted the cup.

The Russian's face froze for a second. "If you prefer that I don't..."

"No, no," the lieutenant replied hastily. "No, please go ahead."

Why was the ensign afraid of him all the sudden? No, it wasn't fear, really. More like over-cautiousness. It was as though Chekov was convinced that Sulu was concealing a hair-trigger temper. The ensign wasn't cowering, but he was walking on eggshells, carefully but resolutely, as if wishing to avoid but nonetheless prepared for the inevitable moment when the lieutenant would lash out at him.

" Kanpai," Chekov said, clinking his cup against the lieutenant's.

"Uh, yeah, right," the lieutenant replied numbly.

Something definitely was wrong here. Chekov was not particularly adept at languages. When he used a new word, he usually pronounced it in a way that let a listener know that the term was fresh out of the box and hadn't been broken in properly. He never just casually dropped a new word into conversation -- as he had just done.

In one reassuringly familiar move, the ensign downed the hot rice wine as if it were a glass of cold vodka.

However, instead of being surprised by the sensation, Chekov swallowed and shook his head slightly as if he were not only used to but even enjoyed scalding the inside of his throat. He turned and poured himself another cup, then walked over to a chair. It was beside the terrestius mannus. Sulu was about to warn him off, but the ensign flipped a food pellet into the plant's maw quite automatically. The last time Chekov had been in his quarters, he'd not wanted to get within six feet of the thing. And now here he was, sitting with it at his elbow as if it weren't even there.

"Well, make yourself at home," Sulu invited ironically.

"It's odd," Chekov said, leaning back in the chair and looking at the hodgepodge of plants and weapons, "but I always feel very safe here."

"That is odd," Sulu agreed. "You've only been here a two or three times."

Chekov looked at him for a moment as if he knew that couldn't possibly be true. He then shrugged cynically and drank a little more sake.

"Okay, Chekov," Sulu said, taking a seat opposite him. "When are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

Chekov laughed humorlessly. "I always do, don't I? Tell you everything... one way or another. Sometimes I think that if I had a higher pain threshold, you and I would never have become such great ...friends, shall we say?"

There was something absolutely chilling about not only what the ensign was saying but the way he was saying it. "What are you talking about?"

"I can't believe I'm here," Chekov said, looking at the ceiling. "I've always thought that I came to you only because I had to... to survive, but here I am." He gave another bitter half-laugh. "I've come crawling to you yet again, haven't I?"

"Crawling to me? Why do you say that?"

"It's what you always say," Chekov assured him. "So, Chekov," the ensign said, lowering his voice to an imitation of the lieutenant's, "you come crawling back to me..." The Russian paused, his lip curling into a sneer. "...Again."

It was a close enough parody to chill Sulu's blood.

The ensign nodded to himself as if pleased by his mimicry. "Yes. It's the time you take before saying, `again' that wounds the most efficiently."

"Chekov," Sulu said, partly to convince himself, "I've never said that to you."

"No." The Russian smiled at him almost sadly. "It's what you always say to me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The navigator looked at him for a long moment, then sighed. "I'm talking nonsense," he said with a shrug. "You should be used to that."

"I'm not," the helmsman countered firmly. "Chekov..." Sulu put down the sake cup. "If something's wrong, don't shut me out. Let me help."

The Russian seemed amused by this. "You want to help?"

"That's what friends are for."

The ensign rose wordlessly and retrieved the empty cups. His movements gave Sulu no clue as to what Chekov could be thinking as he refilled them from the decanter.

"Is that what we are?" he asked as he put a full cup into the lieutenant's hand. "Friends?"

Sulu could feel an electricity in his touch when their fingers met. Ignoring this and putting the drink aside, he said, "Chekov, if I've said or done anything that's hurt you..."

Chekov laughed before downing his drink. "And you would never hurt me, would you?"

Sulu rose and took the cup out of the ensign's hand. When he was satisfied he had the navigator's full attention, he said seriously, "No. No, I wouldn't. I would never intentionally hurt you."

Chekov blinked as looked at him as if truly seeing him for the first time. "You mean that, don't you?"

There was an intensity in the younger man's gaze that made Sulu aware of how close the two of them were standing.

"Of course I mean it," he said, smiling to relieve some of the sudden weightiness of the moment. "I'm your friend."

"And you... care for me?" There was almost heartbreaking vulnerability in the other man's voice.

"Very much," Sulu confirmed with a little more vehemence than he had planned to.

Chekov smiled and put his hands on the helmsman's shoulders. He leaned forward as if preparing to tell his helm partner a secret. When Sulu inclined his head slightly in response, the ensign kissed him softly but passionately on the lips.

Sulu stood frozen for a moment, unable to credit what his senses reported had just happened.

"Have I shocked you?" the Russian asked quietly.

"No..." Sulu answered automatically. Then seeing the immediate disbelief on the other man's face, he knew he had to continue. "I mean... I didn't know you felt that way about me."

Chekov reached out and caressed his cheek. "The way you feel about me?" he asked. "The way you've felt about me ever since you first set eyes on me?"

Sulu's insides flipped. "You... You knew?" he managed to stammer.

"No." Chekov shook his head and smiled. "It's always taken me a while to notice these sorts of things. Why didn't you ever mention the way you felt?"

Sulu felt himself almost drowning in the sudden swirl of emotion. He couldn't imagine how after all these years Chekov had managed to catch him so utterly unprepared to say the things he'd thought about saying for so long. He forced himself to focus. "I didn't want to push you..." he said. "I don't want to push you into something you're not ready for."

The expression on the other man's face was indescribable. Affection, regret and a hundred other emotions mingled there.

"Oh, Karushka," the Russian said simply, pulling him into an embrace. Chekov laid his head wearily against Sulu's shoulder. "Where have you been all my life?" he whispered softly.

"Well, is he Chekov or not?" Kirk demanded.

"He is and he isn't," McCoy replied stubbornly.

"Bones, that's impossible."

"I know. But that's the results we're getting from comparing the scan that Moreau did to our records. Retina scan, blood type, dental records -- All the conventional indicators match."

"Then he is Chekov."

"But there are differences. Look at the brain wave scans. This is our old Chekov. And this is the new version."

"What are those?" Kirk asked indicating spikes in the second set of readings.

"Stress levels."

"So he's experienced some recent trauma?"

"No, this man has experienced several traumas probably dating from childhood. He's led a stress-filled life." McCoy flipped to another slide. "And look at this."

Kirk did for a moment, then shook his head in defeat. "What am I looking at?"

"Livers." McCoy tapped the left half of the display. "This young man likes his vodka and has an occasional glass or two. This young man drinks himself into a stupor at least once a month and uses a variety of chemical stimulants -- some of which I can't even identify."

"I hope this is our Chekov." Kirk said indicating the first slide.

McCoy nodded and pointed to the other. "But this is the one we've got."

"An impostor."

"Maybe."

"What do you mean, `maybe'?"

"Jim, in the last 590 days, Chekov has been to sickbay eight times with illnesses or injuries. Of these illnesses or injuries, this man has had five of the same things at the same time. Two of the other visits are similar. Chekov broke his collar bone at the same time this man broke his wrist -- both from the same sort of fall. Chekov had a mild case of Rigellian Flu, this man almost died. There's one illness that doesn't match at all."

"A clone?" Kirk guessed.

"Artificially aged and given similar injuries? Yes, but if you're going to go to all that trouble, then why the omissions and inconsistencies?"

"Sloppiness."

McCoy shook his head and changed the slide again. This one was a recognizable x-ray of two identical hands. "A few weeks ago, Chekov broke a tiny section in the first joint of his little finger. He probably did it when he was in the gym. Happens all the time. Hurts at first, but not enough to go to Sickbay. And he didn't. This isn't even a sickbay record. It's a hand print from the project he was working on. It required security clearance."

Kirk compared the two x-rays. McCoy increased the magnification to make it easier for him. "Both of these fingers were broken in the same place..."

The doctor nodded. "At the same exact time. Now how could someone duplicate a detail like this and miss a case of Snalai fever that put our Chekov in Sickbay for a week?"

"I don't know," Kirk said grimly, "but I'm going to find out."

Outside of Sulu's quarters, Chekov stood looking at the small device in his hand. The timer was set to count off three minutes.

'I can't hesitate,' he reminded himself.

But he was hesitating. He glanced at the closed door at his back and thought of the Sulu that was behind it. He then thought of the first time he had been with the Sulu of his own world...

***

The first indication Chekov had that anything was wrong was the feel of a hand against his thigh. Wedged as he was halfway inside a ventilation duct, he wasn't able to reach his phaser first.

"Come on out, Chekov," called an unpleasantly familiar voice.

With a thudding heart, he backed out to find himself surrounded by the chief of security and two of his men.

"I'm repairing relays from the main computer," he said turning back to his work as if annoyed by the interruption. "You can check with Mr. Spock for authorization."

Sulu's hand shot out to stop him. Smiling, the security chief reached past him to remove the tiny cyanide canister the ensign was in the midst of planting in the air recycling unit for Lieutenant Commander Morley's quarters. "I doubt he authorized this, did he? Not for one of his own men."

Chekov pressed his lips together hard and tried to think of a suitably convincing lie.

"What's the matter, ensign?" Sulu asked teasingly. "Tired of being low man on the totem pole in Spock's organization? You're not going to move up this way." The lieutenant laughed and tapped Chekov on the nose with the canister. "Especially not now that you've been caught."

Knowing he was trapped, the ensign decided nothing could be lost in making a break for it. He pushed Sulu back towards his backup and ran. Or tried to. One of the redshirts caught him in a flying tackle, knocking him to the ground. Painfully twisting his arms behind him, the guard hauled him roughly to his feet.

Sulu made a tisk-tisk noise with his tongue as he signalled the other guard forward. "Panicky, today, aren't we?"

The guard ran his hands over the ensign's body, pausing only to relieve him of his agonizer, a second canister, and a knife he had hidden in his boot. "He's clean," the redshirt reported handing the items over to his chief.

"Well, well, well," Sulu said, he examined the doubly-damning evidence. "Is this a backup, or were you planning for there to be a sudden outbreak of mysterious asphyxiations all over the ship tonight?"

Chekov struggled to break free of the tight grip of the guard just to assure himself that escape was indeed impossible.

The Security Chief stepped forward, a mocking smile still on his face. "Well, young man, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Chekov looked up and down the empty corridor for some sign of help that he had no reason to believe might be there. "What are you going to do with me?" he asked in as defiant a tone as he could manage.

"That depends," Sulu said advancing another step, "on what you're willing to do."

Chekov frowned. "You want me to do some job for you?"

Sulu laughed and his redshirted goons grinned at this. "Yeah," he said stepping in so close the ensign could feel his breath on his face. "I guess you could call it that."

The Security Chief suddenly reached out and grabbed either side of the navigator's jaw forcing his mouth open. Chekov tried to pull away but that wasn't currently an option. Sulu's lips closed over his in a rapacious kiss.

The navigator groaned inwardly. He knew all about Sulu's reputation, of course. But somehow he thought that the easy rapport they'd established in the past as helm partners had granted him some sort of immunity. Apparently not.

"So," Sulu said, pulling back. "What's it going to be, Chekov? What are you willing to do to save your life?"

Chekov closed his eyes and sighed. So, this was it. Either he submitted or he'd die in the agony booth like others had done before. Making his decision, he opened his eyes and looked up and down the corridor. "Here?" he asked acidly.

Sulu nodded to the guard. "My quarters."

The lieutenant's cabin was conveniently located at the other end of the corridor. The guard pushed Chekov through the doorway, but did not follow.

'Well, that's something,' the ensign consoled himself silently.

The Security chief had his phaser drawn and levelled. "Strip," he ordered.

Chekov shouldered his way out of his shirt looking around the room for something that could be used as a weapon. It was full of all sorts of promising junk, including a plant that looked like it was more likely to eat than be eaten.

"Now the boots," the lieutenant directed. "Slowly. One at a time. Put them on the floor in front of you. Don't toss them."

The ensign grimaced as he bent to pull his boots off. It didn't look as though he was going to be given the chance to do any damage. After placing his boots in front of him with exaggerated care, he straightened and put his hands on his hips. "And now?" he asked as if he didn't know.

Sulu didn't seem bothered by the insolence. "Now the pants."

Chekov removed his remaining garments quickly, making a show of his indifference.

The lieutenant looked him up and down appreciatively. "Very nice," he commented. "Turn around and cross your hands behind your head."

The ensign obeyed slowly and grudgingly. He could hear the whine as the helmsman ran a tricorder over his bare skin. "I'm not armed," he assured his captor.

"You make it sound like you wish you were," Sulu said, indicating with a tap on his arm that the navigator should turn back around. "Don't worry, Pavel," he said, when the ensign faced him, "I don't want to hurt you. I just want to fuck you."

Jabbing the phaser into Chekov's back, the lieutenant directed him towards the bed. "Face down," he directed. "Grab onto either side at the head."

Someone had thoughtfully installed restraining bands there seemingly for just such a purpose. Sulu tightened the bands one handedly. Chekov's assumed air of indifference began to fade as the helmsman pulled his ankles apart and fitted them into similar restraints.

"Excuse me while I slip into something more comfortable," the lieutenant said, cheerfully excusing himself.

When Chekov heard the bathroom door close behind him, he pulled at the bands holding him. However these weren't merely decorative. They were sickbay-grade restraints, designed to hold even those who sincerely wished to be free. He strained to reach any of the items on the little shelf beside the bunk, but it was no use. He let his face drop onto the pillow in frustration.

This couldn't be happening. Not to him. Not again. He couldn't be that stupid, could he? But it was happening. To him. Again. Apparently he was that stupid.

"Very nice," Sulu commented on the view as he re-entered. "What's the matter, Chekov?" he said, crossing to the head of the bed. "You look like you're going to cry."

"I'm not," Chekov assured him, rubbing his face roughly against the bed covering to wipe the last bit of moisture from his cheek.

"Poor Pavel." The helmsman's voice was mocking, but the hand that stroked his hair was gentle and almost affectionate. "You're still just a baby, aren't you?"

Chekov shook his hand off. "Go on," he said, mustering his last reserves of defiance. "Do what you're going to do."

"I don't know," Sulu said, letting his hand wander aimlessly over the bare skin of the navigator's back. "Somehow, this isn't quite what I want."

Chekov blinked at him. "What?"

"Oh, it's not you," the helmsman assured him, gliding his hand down to the curve of the navigator's rump and giving the firm flesh there an approving squeeze. "You're even more charming undressed than you are dressed. I've been watching you and waiting for months for you to screw up so I could have you in just this position. And I still want you... badly. It's just... I don't know. I can't quite put my finger on it."

Chekov rolled his eyes. It didn't seem to him that Sulu was having any problems putting his fingers on anything.

"It's not that I expected you to be willing," the lieutenant mused, absently massaging the small of the ensign's back. "I didn't expect that at all. In fact, if when I caught you you'd grinned and dropped your pants I think I would have been so disappointed I would have shot you on the spot..."

"Listen," Chekov interrupted. "If you're going to do this thing, please get on with it. I'd rather have this over with as quickly as possible."

"You see, that's it," Sulu said, pointing a finger in his face. "That's what I don't like. I don't like knowing that you're just going to grit your teeth and wait for it to be over."

Chekov looked at him incredulously, "What do else do you expect?"

"I don't know," Sulu replied discontentedly. "I don't know what I want. What do you want?"

Chekov sighed into the pillow. "I want to kill myself."

Sulu laughed at him. "Don't be so melodramatic. Like I said before, I'm only going to fuck you."

"Then do it!"

The lieutenant considered for a moment then made a negative noise and moved out of Chekov's line of sight. The ensign could hear liquid being poured.

"Here," the helmsman said, pushing his captive up onto his elbows and putting a glass to his lips. "Drink this."

Hot alcohol burned its way down the ensign's throat.

"What's that?" he choked.

"Sake."

Chekov frowned as he watched the lieutenant drain a cup of the same beverage. "You aren't really Japanese," he said, searching for any small way to hurt his captor.

Sulu gave a short surprized laugh. "What makes you say that?"

"You're an American," he said accusingly. "You have an American accent."

"I can still drink sake though, can't I?"

When Chekov made no answer, the lieutenant poured another glass of the hot wine and held it out for him.

"I don't like it," the ensign said stubbornly.

"Oh, shut up and drink," the helmsman said, pressing it to his lips.

When Sulu was satisfied that a majority of Chekov's drink had wound up inside the ensign's mouth, he refilled the glass for himself.

" Kanpai," he toasted.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Chekov asked irritably.

"How the hell should I know?" the lieutenant replied, "since, as you so kindly pointed out, I'm not really Japanese?"

Chekov made no reply. He could feel the hot drink burning its way down to his stomach.

"I don't know why you're acting like this is some great tragedy for you," Sulu observed. "You may be a baby, but you're not exactly a virgin."

Chekov lowered himself onto the pillow and turned his face so the lieutenant couldn't see it.

"I've been checking up on you," the security chief confirmed. "Asking around. But really, I could have figured it out for myself. Someone like you could have never made it through the Academy without being fucked by someone."

The ensign closed his eyes as if that could stop Sulu from dredging up the memory of his sordid passage through that institution.

It couldn't. "There was an upperclassman who... um, took care of you for the first couple years you were there, right?"

Chekov didn't nod. Actually Sir hadn't been merely an upperclassman. He was a young lieutenant back at the Academy to attend Command School classes. Chekov knew Sir had a first and last name but had never presumed to use them -- even in his own thoughts. Sir was ten years older, almost a foot taller, and a small person heavier than Chekov. He was also frighteningly intelligent. Sir had the touch of sadism requisite for being an officer, but was strict rather than cruel. As his orderly, Chekov was assigned to clean his room and run errands for him. Underclassmen were routinely given such duties in the dormitory where they lived.

Sir took an uncommon interest in Chekov, though. No one had ever taken much notice of him at all before that. His parents, long divorced, seemed to view him as an unfortunate reminder of an unpleasant interval in their lives. Sir called the upbringing they'd given him criminally permissive. He was a spoiled brat, Sir had told him, used to getting his own way by pouting, cheating, and lying. He'd have to become much more disciplined if he hoped to become an officer in the Imperial Fleet.

Sir certainly provided discipline. For the first few months there were punishments on a fairly regular basis for infractions such as speaking disrespectfully to upperclassmen, getting into brawls, lying to instructors, skipping class, or attending class either drunk or hungover. Any official demerit he received for unacceptable conduct was worth double the penalty: one portion for what he'd done and another for getting caught. Sir had eyes and ears everywhere. It was impossible to escape his all-seeing gaze and his heavy hand.

When word got out of a beating Chekov had taken for forgetting to study for a test and coming within a few points of not * failing* but just getting a below average grade, it was generally agreed by the underclassmen that Sir was the strictest taskmaster in the dorm -- excluding the upperclassmen who everyone agreed were insane in their treatment of their plebe charges. Sir, they assured him, was being hard on him for his own good. If he could learn to please Sir, he'd have no trouble pleasing the Academy's instructors enough to earn his stripes as an ensign.

Sex had not entered their relationship as a way of pleasing Sir. Chekov had known that other upperclassmen took advantage of their orderlies in that way and had felt relatively lucky that he had been spared that humiliation. Sir seemed much more interested in applying all the principles he was learning in Command School to his young subordinate, to see if this unpromising lump could be molded into a proper soldier.

They might have never had sex at all if Chekov hadn't gotten into a fight in the shower room of the gymnasium. Sir, finding out about the incident almost immediately, of course, called the cadet to his room for an accounting. Blushing furiously, but believing the explanation would exonerate him, Chekov had haltingly explained that the two upperclassmen had caught him in the shower alone and threatened to rape him. Sir had seemed mildly surprised and began to question Chekov in his usual blunt and businesslike manner about the young man's previous sexual history. Sir then informed Chekov that his lack of experience of sex with another man was a gap in his education, a weakness that would have to be corrected before someone could exploit it to his disadvantage. An enemy might use sex to blackmail him into cooperation. A superior officer might demand it in return for promotion. A captor might use sex to break his will and force him to give out information that might endanger the Empire.

And so, in his usual, thorough, uncompromising way, Sir set out to correct the perceived flaw. He "educated" Chekov regularly for months to come until the cadet could not say there was any form of male-male intercourse he had not experienced.

"What happened to him?" Sulu's voice pulled him back into the present.

"He was killed. Three months into his first command his ship was destroyed in an ion storm." Even now, Chekov felt numbed by the thought -- not happy, not sad, merely numbed. He had yet to sort out his feelings for Sir, who he regarded not as a lover but as a surrogate parent of sorts -- a strict, concerned, vigilant parent who upon occasion sexually abused him for his own good.

"After that, you got involved with one of your instructors, right?"

Sulu had obviously done his homework. Chekov's relationship with Lieutenant Maddox had been less successful -- especially for Maddox. "I killed him," Chekov reported with satisfaction.

"Poisoned him, so they say," Sulu concurred with a grin. "How did you manage to get away with it?"

Chekov shrugged. "That would be telling."

"And on the strength of that, you managed to get through the Academy and posted here." Sulu poured himself another drink. "Kirk put you on the bridge, but lost interest as soon as he found out that he wouldn't be going where no man had gone before." Sulu laughed at his own joke. "He's like that -- in serious denial of his own bisexuality, but with a definite taste for 'mentoring' the occasional young innocent. Finding that you were not as innocent as you were young, he passed you on to Spock, who may take the next seven years to decide if he wants you or not. And in his care you have languished ever since. To all outward appearances unloved and unwanted -- but not exactly available either."

Chekov sighed. "Your point being..?"

"Want another drink?" Sulu said, holding the steaming cup out to him again.

"Why not?" the ensign acquiesced, opening his mouth and letting the hot liquid spill over his tongue.

"You're learning to like sake, aren't you?" Sulu said, wiping off the corners of Chekov's mouth with his thumb.

"Ah," Chekov nodded to himself. "You think if I'm drunk, I'll cooperate." The ensign looked at his captor and shook his head. "You're wrong. When I'm drunk I'm more disagreeable."

"Really?" The lieutenant only smiled and poured another cupful for him.

"And," Chekov said after he'd swallowed it, "if you keep trying to try to keep up with me, soon you won't be able to do anything anyway."

"You think so?" Sulu downed a cup unconcernedly. "Have you ever had Tellurian Ecstasy before?"

"What?" Chekov stared as the helmsman held up the decanter of wine and pointed to the remains of five black pills that had bubbled away to almost nothing in the fraction of an inch of wine still left.

"It makes sex even better," Sulu explained.

The navigator stared at the decanter disbelievingly.

Sulu smiled as he reached out and stroked the ensign's face with his finger. "You're not feeling disagreeable now. Are you?"

Chekov could feel the warmth of the helmsman's skin very intensely. 'No,' he told himself, 'he's bluffing. I'm only feeling the wine.' He pulled back warily.

The lieutenant, unperturbed by this, only moved his hand to the ensign's body, letting his fingertips slide lightly up and down the navigator's spine. Those fingers tingled and burned exquisitely wherever they made contact.

"I don't think you're feeling disagreeable," Sulu said, smiling as he watched the ensign writhe beneath his touch. "I don't think you're feeling disagreeable at all."

Chekov began to feel very aware of how naked he was, how bound and deliciously helpless... He shook his head to clear it. "No," he groaned. "No..."

The lieutenant laughed as he put his hand between the ensign's legs. "You say no, but there's someone down here who's already saying yes."

"Please," Chekov pleaded as much with the helmsman as with his own damnably weak body. "Please."

"No, you're feeling less disagreeable with every minute," Sulu said, standing and loosening his robe. He crossed to the foot of the bunk.

Chekov felt a shudder of something painfully near delight pass through him as he felt the soft impact of the helmsman's knees landing on the mattress behind him. He had to bite his lip to keep from moaning when the lieutenant's hands settled on his thighs, parting them even further than the restraints made necessary.

"After a while," Sulu purred, laying a caressing hand on his backside, "You'll start feeling downright agreeable. But, like I told you, that's not what I want."

A little of the moan the he'd bitten back before escaped the ensign's lips.

Sulu chuckled to hear it. "Right now, you still know that you want to resist. You just know that you can't." As if to prove the point, he lifted the ensign's unresisting hips up towards him. "You know you don't want to enjoy this. But you're not going to be able to stop yourself from enjoying this."

As he parted the firm buttocks in front of him, Sulu laughed delightedly at the more full-throated and anguished moan of pleasure the action elicited from his captive.

"Yes," he said with a sigh of satisfaction. " This is exactly what I want."

***

In that hallway of another universe in front of the quarters of another Sulu, Chekov stood and considered.

Taking in a deep breath, the ensign changed the setting on the timer from three to thirty minutes. In thirty minutes, this dangerously pleasant Sulu would probably be asleep. If he wasn't conscious when the cyanide capsule was released, the end wouldn't be so painful.

Chekov shrugged to himself as he hit the start button. Such an insignificant little mercy was the least he could do.

"It couldna have been the transporter," Scotty was saying. "There was an unexpected power surge, but the sequence completed normally. I checked the pattern buffer myself."

McCoy drummed his fingers on the briefing room table. Jim Kirk was late for his own meeting. He'd stopped by his cabin to pick up some log tapes. Probably ran into someone. Maybe Security. How long could it possibly take them to locate Chekov? The thought of Ben Finney haunting the ship for weeks sprang to mind unwanted.

"He walked out of the lab on his own power," the engineer was saying.

"And then almost fainted," McCoy added.

Scott sat back and shook his head stubbornly. "I don't know anything about that."

"A power surge?" Spock asked.

He'd been unnaturally quiet since entering. McCoy thought the Vulcan's skin color looked a little off as well. He wondered if the science officer with coming down with some ungodly Vulcan version of the flu everyone had last month. Of course Spock would rather die than come down to sickbay....

"Yes," Scotty was answering, "A misaligned coil."

"Was the power surge comparable to the one that caused you, the doctor, Lt. Uhura and the captain to another universe?" the Vulcan asked, absently putting one hand to his neck.

"No. It..." Scott paused and considered the idea. "There wasn't nearly so much power."

"Not enough to transport five people..." Spock had to pause and clear his throat. "But enough to transport one?"

"Is that what you think happened, Spock?" McCoy asked.

"Ensign Chekov spoke to me earlier today about parallel universes," the Vulcan reported. "On the bridge, I discovered him reviewing the records of two crewmen killed in accident in auxiliary control while you were in the alternate Enterprise."

"That's right," McCoy said, remembering the report. "Chekov was in an accident here while we were gone."

"Yes," Spock confirmed, having to pause to clear his throat again. "While effecting minor repairs to auxiliary control caused by damage from the ion storm, a control panel exploded. The two crewmen assisting him were killed, but Chekov, who was not in the immediate area, suffered only a minor electrical shock. "

Scotty snorted. "Nothing next to the shock that the Chekov in the alternate universe got when he was put into the agony booth for trying to kill..."

"...Kill the captain," McCoy finished, looking at the empty chair at the head of the table. "Spock, do you think he'll try...?

"If..." Another false start. The Vulcan's breathing was beginning to sound a bit labored. "If Mr. Chekov has been transposed with his counterpart in the alternate universe, I think.... that this time we must.... consider the possibility.... that this was not an accident... but a part of a plan."

"Spock?" If McCoy didn't know better, he'd swear the Vulcan was about to pass out.

Cold sweat had begun to visibly bead on the Science Officer's brow. "An... invasion..." he managed to say before a violent fit of rasping gasps overtook him.

"Spock!"

Picking up the tricorder he'd brought to present evidence, McCoy rushed to his side. The Vulcan, looking infinitely surprised collapsed into his arms.

"What's the matter with him?" Scotty asked, as the doctor took a quick reading.

"He's been poisoned," McCoy concluded.

"Poisoned? How?"

"I don't know," the doctor replied grimly. "And if I can't figure it out, he's got about 30 seconds to live."

Kirk knew as soon as he entered his cabin that someone else was there. He quickly hit the intercom. "Security..."

The device was dead.

"Chekov?" he called tentatively.

A stream of blue energy shot past his ear. The controls to the cabin door sparked and hissed when the phaser blast hit them.

The lights came up enough to reveal Chekov at the lighting panel on the other side of the room with the phaser in his hand. "You were expecting me, then?"

"What do you want, mister?"

Chekov considered a moment and then smiled. "I think I want a drink."

"Well, I'm afraid I don't have anything in here," Kirk said pleasantly. We could go to the officer's lounge and..."

"Like a good Star Fleet Cadet," Chekov gestured to a tall black bottle on Kirk's desk. "I have come prepared."

Kirk made an obliging gesture. "Don't let me stop you."

"Pour a glass for me, Captain." Chekov pointed him towards the desk with the phaser.

With an elaborately good natured shrug, the captain obliged. While pouring the drink, Kirk noted that the drawer in his desk that usually held his spare phaser was open and empty.

"And one for yourself," the ensign insisted instead of taking the glass the captain held out to him.

"I don't like vodka," Kirk demurred.

Chekov's smile became a shade more pointed. "I didn't ask if you did."

As he wracked his brain for a plan, Kirk poured a second glass.

"Just leave mine on the table and sit down on the bunk," the ensign ordered.

Chekov maintained a careful distance between the two of them as the captain did as he was told.

When Chekov picked up his glass, Kirk held his up in a mock toast. "After you, Ensign."

Keeping his eyes on his captive the whole time, Chekov drained the glass in a single swallow.

When Kirk tried to follow suit, the vodka nearly crossed his eyes. It had to be at least 150 proof... "Good stuff," he managed to croak.

Chekov set the bottle down on the floor in front of him, then carefully slid down into a comfortable seated position on the floor. The sights of his phaser never wavered from their fix on Kirk's forehead the entire time. The Russian tilted his head to one side and looked at his captive critically for a moment. "You don't really recognize me, do you?"

"Of course I do," Kirk replied with a humorless grin. "It's hard to forget the face of someone that tries to kill you... No matter what universe you're in."

Chekov smiled and one-handedly poured himself another drink. "Maybe you're not the stupid pig you seem. We should drink to that -- not being stupid."

Kirk ignored the bottle that Chekov pushed across the floor toward him. "I think I've had enough."

"Ah." The Russian held up a correcting finger. "Again I must remind you that I didn't ask if you did."

The captain poured himself another. As they watched each other down their respective drinks, Kirk wondered what the double's plan was... Or if he even had a plan. McCoy had indicated that this version of Chekov was a borderline alcoholic.

"About not being stupid, Chekov...." he began.

"They say time in the agony booth can have one of two effects," the ensign interrupted. "Either you become weak and too fearful to ever kill again, or you grow to like killing very much."

"What effect did it have on you?"

Chekov smiled and gestured towards the bottle. "Let's drink to the effect it's had on me."

Kirk poured himself another, then slid the bottle back purposefully to the left of the Russian's position. If Chekov reached for it, he would be off balance enough to...

Looking as if the captain's stratagem bored him, the double got up and retrieved the bottle, keeping his phaser pointedly fixed on a spot between Kirk's eyes.

"I spared your life," Kirk pointed out, after downing another glass of the fiery liquid. "Your captain would have had you executed..."

Chekov gave a derisive laugh. "One may live through being put in the agony booth, but it's is rare to actually * survive* after a session," he informed him. "It's broadcast, you know. Available live throughout the ship as an incentive for moral. Recorded so your enemies can watch you scream and squeal like an animal at their leisure. Everyone knows exactly how weak you are. And it does make you very weak for a very long time afterwards. The nightmares and tremors go on for years, they tell me. That is, if I live for years. Fortunately.." he said, topping off his glass, "good vodka helps."

Kirk took the bottle that was shoved towards him with a tight smile. "Here's to helping."

"We had it arranged beforehand," Chekov told him. "The captain and I."

"The assassination attempt was a setup?"

"Of course. Only a fool would try to kill Captain Kirk aboard ship. That's begging to be..." Chekov sought for the proper verb with a crooked smile. "...vanished. A 'traitor' was planted in my ranks to make it more convincing. You were to easily foil the armed attempt... without resorting to your disappearing trick for once. It would have enhanced your reputation. And, after I 'broke down' under questioning, you'd have all the evidence you need to get rid of Sulu."

"The security chief?"

Chekov nodded. "Who was getting a little too powerful a little too quickly for your taste.... and mine."

"What was in it for you?"

"After my 'confession' you were going to magnanimously forgive me and provide me with a very generous second chance -- a fresh start. I would be promoted to lieutenant and transferred to the command of a small scout ship on border patrol."

Kirk lifted an eyebrow. "A dangerous assignment."

"But a command of my own," Chekov stressed. "And after all, if you're not willing to take a few risks..."

Something inside the captain chilled to hear a phrase on the lips of this creature that he remembered Marlene Moreau, his mistress in the alternate universe, could complete from memory. Nonetheless, he forced himself to smile.

"Let's drink to risks," he suggested, raising the bottle.

Instead of pouring a drink, he threw it at the double. What he did not count on was that instead of ducking, the other man would pull the trigger of the phaser.

Chekov wiped vodka from his cheek that had splashed on him as the bottle flew harmlessly past him. He walked over to where Kirk's unconscious form had crumpled to the floor.

"Stupid pig," he said contemptuously.

"Damn," Scotty swore at the tricorder that informed him that the controls to Kirk's cabin door had been fused from the inside. The same tricorder had already told him that all the intercom lines to the cabin had been cut and that one of the people inside was already unconscious.

"Can you cut through?" Lt. Anderson, the current head of Security, asked.

Scotty shook his head. "Not without giving him a lot of advanced notice."

Anderson bit his lip as he looked from the fused door back to his waiting team of Security guards. "Do you really think it's probable that Mr. Chekov will attempt to harm his hostage if he knows he's trapped?"

"It's not our Mr. Chekov, lad," Scott reminded him. "It's his murdering alternate who's already tried to kill the captain once and is the cause of Mr. Spock being at death's door at this moment."

Anderson surveyed the door once more. "We'll have to flood the cabin with knockout gas then cut through."

"If he's poisoned the captain, we may not have that much time left," Scotty had to point out.

"Damn," Anderson swore. "I can't think of any faster way to get Chekov out of there."

Scotty stared at him for a moment replaying those words a few times before the inspiration that should have been obvious hit him. "Maybe I can," he said, heading off down the corridor and gesturing for Anderson to follow.

Kirk woke to a few very big unpleasant surprises. The first was that his arms and legs were anchored to the sides of his bunk with magnetic bands, securing him spread-eagled on his stomach. The second was that he was naked. And the third surprise was that there was a very wicked looking knife laying on the pillow next to him.

Chekov, who quite disappointingly had still not turned into the pleasantly biddable ensign he knew, was in the midst of taking off his boots. "Hello, again," he said cheerfully.

"What do you think you're going to do?" Kirk asked mustering all the disapproving force he could.

The Russian shouldered out of his shirt in a businesslike fashion before stepping over to pick up the knife. "Kill you," he replied, running the cold metal in a caressing line down his captain's cheek. "...Among other things."

"Why?" Kirk demanded.

Chekov laughed incredulously. "Of all the people today whose lives I am causing to end, you are the only one to ask why. And you are the only one who I have reason to kill. You. Personally. Not just because of your counterpart in my universe. I don't seem to have made it clear to you, but I did not enjoy my time in the agony booth."

"The others?" Kirk repeated. "What others?"

"Others who have counterparts in my universe who I want to kill," Chekov explained, over-enunciating patronizingly. "When they die here, they will die there as well."

Kirk shook his head. "You don't know that."

"Do you remember Hayes and Smith?" Chekov asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. "The two who were killed in my assassination attempt? The two who weren't fortunate enough to be 'spared' so they could be sent to the booth? They were killed in this universe as well -- in an accident that happened at almost the same point in time."

"That could have just been coincidence," Kirk argued. "You can't know if there's a true cause and effect relationship."

"Ah, but that is why I am here," the Russian said, grinning at him over the tip of his knife. "I am experimenting. I plan to test the theorem... extensively."

"What if you're wrong?"

"Then," Chekov said, reaching down to stroke slowly up the back of his captain's naked body, "at least I will be able to say I enjoyed trying... and so will you."

The gesture was a shocking one. It was, to begin with, unbelievable that someone with Chekov's face could do anything so violative. More appalling was the input from Kirk's nervous system reporting that on some level he was finding this arousing.

"Do you know what delandremene is, Captain?" the false Chekov asked, holding up an empty vodka glass.

Kirk didn't admit that he knew it was an aphrodisiac. His body was already well on its way to doing that for him. What in the hell had happened between the two of them in the other universe that would make Chekov want to do this to him? It was obvious that the other Marlene had suspected his counterpart was cheating, but surely not....

"Not as powerful as Tellurian Ecstasy," Chekov said, letting his fingers trace lazy circles on the tingling skin of his captain's back. "But that substance doesn't seem to exist in this reality. Delandremene was the best I could persuade the pharmaceutical computer to manufacture on short notice."

Kirk gritted his teeth and concentrated on laying absolutely still.

"I'm sure delandremene will do the job sufficiently, though." The ensign crawled slowly over the captain's rigid form, letting his skin and the soft fabric of his uniform trousers rub against Kirk's flesh liberally as he manoeuvred into a position kneeling on the bed between the captain's outspread knees.

Kirk bit his lip to keep from gasping when the ensign laid the cold bladed knife on the small of his back.

"You can't imagine how long I've wanted to do this," Chekov said, using both hands to caress his captain's trembling thighs. "You can't imagine how satisfying this is going to be..."

A groan escaped Kirk. It was abundantly clear that his best efforts to resist were not going to be nearly enough.

The ensign smiled. With a little more encouragement, the muscular buttocks began to lift supplicatingly towards him.

Suddenly the world shimmered briefly around Chekov.

Unmistakably a failed transporter effect, he thought drawing back and looking for a source. But how?

As Kirk moaned helplessly before him, the ensign's mind raced. What had he heard when he'd arrived? What had they been working on in the Physics Lab? Intra-ship beaming? It wasn't possible!

"No," Chekov said, backing up and looking vainly around him for the invisible enemy who dared rob him of his hard-earned revenge. "No! No!"

Again the world shimmered and threatened to deliquesce.

"No!" Chekov screamed, struggling helplessly in the grip of an unseen force that jerked him like a toy on a string.

He looked wildly about for a defence... Something to cling to before they tried again. But the thought had occurred too late.

"Noooooo!" he screamed again before dissolving into oblivion.