Howard Weinstein

Howard Weinstein’s writing career now spans four decades. Fortunately, he started young (at age 19), with the sale of an episode, “The Pirates of Orion,” of the animated Star Trek series in 1974. Since then, his varied credits include six Star Trek novels; three V novels; sixty issues of the Star Trek comics for DC, Marvel, and Wildstorm Comics; and assorted other literary and nonfiction flotsam.

More recently, Howard’s short story “Safe Harbors” appeared in the Tales of the Dominion War anthology in 2004. Marking Star Trek’s fortieth anniversary in 2006, Howard is involved in three special projects: an essay in BenBella Books’ Boarding the Enterprise on the meaning and legacy of Star Trek; “Official Record” in this anthology; and “The Blood-Dimmed Tide,” one of the stories in the Mere Anarchy e-book series.

Outside of Star Trek, his recent books include Puppy Kisses Are Good for the Soul & Other Important Lessons You & Your Dog Can Teach Each Other, an account of his fifteen-year relationship with his wonderful Welsh corgi, Mail Order Annie; and another true labor of love for this lifelong baseball fan, a biography of his childhood hero, New York Yankees star Mickey Mantle.

Howard’s other main occupation these days is Day-One Dog Training. He calls himself a “doggie social worker” and enjoys using Annie’s valuable lessons to help dogs and humans have the best possible life together.

Until a week ago, Ensign Pavel Chekov had been quite certain of his future. That is, until the explosion that was, indisputably, all his fault.

Now he was certain only of his past. And it sure as hell wasn’t supposed to lead to this.

From his first day of school, this only child had displayed an exceptional sense of purpose. While other children tended to skip from one dream to another as casually as they changed play clothes, Pavel had always impressed his teachers-and startled his parents-with an unswerving determination to serve on a starship and explore the cosmos.

Even as he grew up and his world widened, and opportunities and distractions multiplied, his course and confidence never wavered. While friends sweated out their university applications, Pavel never doubted he’d be accepted to Starfleet Academy. Once there, unfazed by homesickness and unbeguiled by San Francisco’s myriad old-city charms, he’d led his peers in academic achievement and graduated at the top of his class.

Now, fresh out of the Academy, a baby-faced but uncommonly sober twenty-two, he was the newest and youngest crew member aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise. Living his dream… until a week ago.

Until the explosion.

All new crew members were required to serve duty rotations in all departments. There was no better process for rookies to learn their way around a vessel from stem to stern, to test their skills at varied tasks, to see firsthand how a starship and her crew relied upon crucial cooperation and communication for their success and very survival in the unforgiving environment of space. And this system gave commanding officers a chance to evaluate performance prior to making permanent assignments.

That’s how Chekov, who already knew he wanted to pursue interests in navigation and science, ended up doing power-conduit and antimatter injector maintenance, on the night shift, in a cramped Jefferies tube, in the bowels of the Enterprise. And how he missed one little live circuit during a theoretically routine plasma purge.

Fortunately, Chekov’s mistake caused no injury beyond his own mortification. And though the power disruption triggered a minor red-alert panic on three decks (not to mention a barrage of largely indecipherable maledictions from Chief Engineer Scott), the fire-suppression system worked perfectly, no bulkheads ruptured, and auxiliary power kicked in as designed. Yet the reprimand for what amounted to fatigue-induced carelessness still shook Chekov loose from his moorings for the first time in his entire life.

“It’s just one black mark,” Sulu told him with a grin. “It had to happen sometime.”

“Why?” Chekov muttered. “Why did it have to happen any time? I’m not supposed to make mistakes the dumbest Academy washout would not make.”

Sulu peered over the rim of his steaming mug of tea, then took a deliberate sip. “Did you really expect to be perfect forever?”

“I had hopes, yes,” Chekov said, without a shred of irony or apparent awareness that Sulu was looking at him as if he were crazy.

“Well, in case you hadn’t heard this before, nobody’s perfect.”

Chekov had no answer beyond yet another in an unending series of soul-searching sighs. Other than his normal duty shifts, this venture to the mess deck with pals Sulu and Uhura was the first time he’d been out of his quarters since the explosion. And after a week of solitary stewing, his entire conversation revolved around increasingly melodramatic pronouncements of self-recrimination:

“It was all my fault.” And:

“It never should have happened.” And:

“I’ve never done anything so stupid in my entire life. Only an idiot could be so stupid.” And:

“The captain will never trust me again.” And:

“How long can I avoid Mr. Scott?” And:

“I’ve finally found out what I’m good at: incompetence.” And:

“The next mistake I make will probably destroy the entire ship.” And:

“This will haunt me for life.” And:

“My career is ruined. I should just quit Starfleet and work with something soft and noncombustible.”

Uhura reached across the table and patted Chekov on the cheek. “Poor kid.” Then she stood and picked up her tray. “Sorry, boys, but I have to go back on duty.”

They watched her leave, and Chekov sighed again. “You should probably go, too. You don’t want to be associated with Starfleet’s biggest loser. Besides, I have to finish my next groundbreaking assignment from Mr. Spock-preparing a briefing on this planet we’re on approach to, Tenkara. Exciting, hnnh? That is why I worked my ass off at Starfleet Academy, so I could go into space and spend the rest of my life in front of a library computer, where I cannot do any damage worse than deleting a database.”

Captain Kirk strode into the briefing room. First Officer Spock was already seated at the conference table, while Dr. McCoy extracted a fresh mug of coffee from the food synthesizer slot. “Well, Jim?” the doctor said impatiently. “Did you decide?”

Kirk took his usual seat. “It was a bonehead screwup. I expect better out of kids with his Academy record.”

“Oh, and you never made any mistakes?” McCoy parried as he sat at the end of the table. “I happen to know- “

“We’re not talking about me, Bones. You still think I was too harsh on him.”

“Nobody’s perfect. Nobody got hurt. It could’ve been worse.”

“Tell that to Scotty.”

“Jim, the point is, this boy’s really down on himself. Every time he’s on duty, he’s as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Now, I’m not sayin’ you pat him on the head and say, ‘Good dog.’”

“Doctor,” Spock interrupted, “your metaphorical presentation loses cogency when you mix species.”

McCoy paused for a half second as he flashed a withering glance in Spock’s direction. “All I’m sayin’ is, if you think he’s got any future at all in Starfleet, now’s the time to get him out of this funk.”

Before Kirk could respond, the briefing room door opened and Chekov entered-and froze. Kirk felt a twinge of sympathy for his young officer, who’d been expecting to deliver his report to Spock for review and referral to the captain. Instead, Chekov found himself facing a roomful of senior officers. Kirk had a pretty good idea what Chekov must have been thinking at that moment: Not only are my captain and first officer here to judge my competence, but the ship’s CMO is here to judge my sanity, too.

And that, in fact, was correct. They were together to evaluate the young man, but there was something else brewing, about which Chekov had not a hint. No matter. Kirk waved him in. Chekov swallowed, and Kirk knew the kid’s mouth must be feeling as dry as Vulcan. As Chekov edged into the seat across from Kirk and Spock, McCoy kindly slid a cup of water within his reach. Chekov took a careful sip.

“Ensign,” Spock prompted, “your report, please.”

Chekov slid the data card into the computer, started speaking from memory, and delivered a flawless recitation on Tenkara, complete with graph, chart, and photographic backup on the viewscreen. Tenkara was one of the few planets in its sector with abundant (though not easily extracted) natural resources, including some exceedingly rare and treasured dilithium deposits and a wide variety of minerals and ores needed by other inhabited worlds nearby. When the Tenkaran government initially asked for help developing those resources, the Federation saw an opportunity to build regional stability and block Klingon expansion, and provided civilian technical assistance to get Tenkara’s backward mining industry up to modern standards.

After two years, some Tenkarans started to resent the presence of outsiders, and dissident native miners began sabotaging operations. The government begged for a low-profile, short-term Starfleet security presence, just to get things stabilized. Despite its reluctance to get drawn into civil conflicts, the Federation Council decided that Tenkara’s strategic importance warranted a measured effort to get things under control-and to send a message to the Klingons.

That small Starfleet detachment had been on Tenkara for the past year, with limited success. But the diplomats and brass still believed the potential strategic benefits outweighed any misgivings and rumblings about corruption within the Tenkaran government. So the Starfleet force remained in place, trying to do the increasingly difficult and unpopular job of maintaining the planet’s critical mining and processing operations while training the local military to take over all security tasks as expeditiously as possible.

Tenkara’s development status corresponded roughly with that of mid-nineteenth-century Earth. And as with many less-developed planets that had been exposed to interaction with far more advanced civilizations, Tenkaran society was a potentially volatile mix of traditional tribal culture and modern technology-and weapons. In short, the government’s uncertain claim to power and pursuit of stability depended on its capacity to project strength and authority sufficient to override age-old clan allegiances and hostilities. As a result, the government’s desperate desire to avoid appearing dependent on the Federation led in turn to tight limits on Starfleet’s presence there, in both size and scope of operations.

“Ensign,” Spock said, “do you agree with current Federation policy?”

The question plainly caught Chekov off guard. “Well, sir…” He licked his lips. “Benefits rarely come without risks. Given a period of some stability and prosperity, it’s quite possible the Tenkarans who now oppose Federation involvement will end up appreciating their planet’s enhanced position of importance in the sector, the advantages of economic development, and their eventual ability to run their own affairs. Logically speaking, that is.”

“Good lord,” McCoy snorted, “he hasn’t even been on board for three months and he already sounds like Spock.”

“Ensign Chekov is merely making a rational evaluation,” Spock said.

“Is everybody forgetting? Without dilithium in the mix,” McCoy argued, “the Federation wouldn’t be here, and neither would we.”

“Doctor,” Spock countered, “you fail to grasp the strategic logic of preventing Klingon incursion into a sector where no planet has the strength to resist them.”

“So you think it’s logical for us to be galactic policemen!”

“Captain,” Chekov blurted, “the Tenkarans have managed to create a global council to manage interplanetary trade and resource wealth for the good of the entire planet. Such profit-sharing arrangements are rare in mistrustful tribal cultures, and do tend to promote unity.”

Kirk glanced pointedly from Spock to McCoy. “A salient point, Ensign. Thank you. So, it’s ‘in for a penny, in for a pound.’”

“Which,” McCoy added, “is a good way to lose the penny and the pound.”

“The fact is,” Kirk said, “they do have dilithium… and we have our orders. If this goes well, then we build a region full of allies able to deter Klingon invasion-and they might even appreciate our effort.”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “Fat chance. No good deed goes unpunished.”

“All right, gentlemen,” Kirk said as he stood, “our mission to Tenkara is simple: deliver a shipment of medical supplies to the Starfleet outpost and a Tenkaran clinic in the capital. The government council has requested that we keep our visit as low-key as possible. To meet that request, the Enterprise will spend the next two days doing resource surveys of nearby solar systems. We’ll be sending Dr. McCoy and these supplies via shuttlecraft. Mr. Chekov, you will be pilot and mission commander.”

Chekov blinked as Kirk’s last few words rattled around inside his head. “E-excuse me, sir?”

“Did I not make myself clear, Ensign?”

“Uhh, no, sir. I-I mean, yes, sir. It’s just that… I thought… after what happened…”

McCoy guided Chekov toward the door. “Don’t look a gift-captain in the mouth, Ensign,” McCoy murmured in Chekov’s ear. “Just say, ‘Yes, sir.’”

“Y-y-yes, sir,” Chekov said uncertainly to McCoy, then immediately repeated the same words, with gusto, to Kirk. “Yes, sir! Thank you, Captain. I won’t let you down, sir!”

As Chekov marched out with a grin on his face, Kirk couldn’t help smiling a bit himself. McCoy was probably right… the kid needed a confidence boost, and this mission seemed idiot-proof. What could possibly go wrong?

The unfortunate answer to Kirk’s rhetorical thought would come, but not right away.

En route, Chekov and McCoy reviewed the record of Captain Irene Kwan, commander of the Starfleet detachment. About Kirk’s age, she was a fifteen-year veteran of combat missions ranging from skirmishes to wars, and she’d earned the nickname “Ice” for her tranquil grace under pressure. In view of that reputation for sturdy and stoic composure, her increasingly emphatic warnings to her superiors that this mission would fail without more personnel and fewer restrictions demanded to be taken seriously. Unlike some officers who scrupulously avoided uttering a discouraging word, Kwan consistently delivered in his reports what she believed to be the unvarnished truth. And McCoy and Chekov both wondered: Is Starfleet listening?

It was midmorning local time when the shuttlecraft banked over a rolling landscape resembling the dusty frontier of the American Southwest or Australian outback. From their altitude over the largely treeless plain, they saw the main mining and ore processing facility twenty miles outside the capital city of Kurpol, a patchwork of irrigated farm fields, and a sparse web of narrow roads leading to the city. The capital itself sat in a verdant valley beside a broad river that flowed down from distant mountains. It was large enough to have distinct districts, including a bustling riverfront port, mansions in the scenic foothills, and slums to the south. Scattered factories smudged the sky with billows from their smokestacks. The downtown commerce district included stone and brick buildings between two and six stories tall. In a central plaza, a soaring white temple gleamed in the sun.

Starfleet’s outpost squatted on a vacant bluff on Kurpol’s outskirts. McCoy watched through the window as Chekov brought the loaded shuttle in for a feather-soft landing within the garrison’s secure confines. Captain Kwan was there to greet them as they opened the hatch. “Welcome to Fort Fed,” she said with a nod and a smile. Tall and lean, with short black hair falling across her brow, Kwan gave them each a firm handshake as they climbed out.

“Fort Fed?” McCoy said.

“That’s because it’s the only place we’re totally safe,” Kwan explained. “We tend to get shot at with increasing frequency every time we’re out on patrol. But the rules of engagement limit our ability to take offensive measures and go after the dissidents before they go after targets-or after us. On top of that, the Tenkaran security ministry leaks like the Titanic. The dissidents seem to know where we’re going before we do. So we’re pretty much stuck in defensive mode.”

“Which must be great for morale,” McCoy said.

“In the short run, we can manage it. But I’ve been telling Starfleet Command for months-this situation is not sustainable.”

While her people unloaded the medical cargo, Kwan took McCoy and Chekov on a brief tour of the drab, bare-bones compound, which consisted of six modular buildings housing barracks, offices, mess hall, sickbay, and brig, surrounded by a perimeter stockade force field. Along the way, they were joined by Kwan’s exec officer, Lieutenant Commander Joe Wilder, a towering mountain of an officer in his late twenties. As he trotted up to them, his shaved head and fierce eyes instantly radiated his self-image: soldier. Instead of the colorful uniforms found aboard a starship, he and everyone in Kwan’s company wore drab utilitarian fatigues. After introductions, as the tour continued, McCoy noted with some concern that all of Kwan’s people looked tired and stressed.

“That’s the nature of this mission,” Kwan shrugged. “We’re either cooped up here most of the time, or we’re out there doing a job some people don’t want us doing.”

“It’s a gritty life,” Wilder added, “compared to flying above it all like you starshippers get to do.”

Chekov’s face twitched; he knew that some planet-based Starfleet personnel like Wilder tended to use starshipper as an insult, and he didn’t like it one little bit. Before he could think of a comeback, a female lieutenant approached them. “Captain, supplies are loaded in the truck and ready to deliver to the clinic.”

Kwan nodded. “Commander Wilder, get the convoy saddled up.”

“Aye, Captain.” Wilder jogged off.

“Doesn’t he ever just walk anywhere?” Chekov muttered to McCoy.

The convoy wasn’t much-just a pair of bulky armored transport vehicles, one carrying the medical supplies, the other carrying McCoy, Chekov, Kwan, Wilder, and eight combat-ready personnel, complete with body armor, helmets, personal electronics, and phaser rifles. Chekov felt naked with just a tiny hand phaser hiding on his hip, tucked under the hem of his tunic.

“Is all this really necessary?” McCoy asked as the two TVAs rolled down the switchback road leading from Fort Fed down to the city.

“Preparation, Doctor,” Wilder said. “Like the book says, ‘Prepare, and take the enemy unprepared.’”

“The book?” McCoy looked confused.

“Sun Tzu’s The Art of War,” Chekov replied with intentional haste, beating Wilder to the punch.

Wilder looked down at Chekov, both literally and figuratively. “Surprised you know that, Ensign. Being a starshipper an’ all.”

“We went to the same academy,” Chekov said.

“I’d say we learned different things.”

“Then you’d be wrong… sir.”

“Boys,” Kwan chided. “Ensign, you’ll have to forgive Commander Wilder. He forgets that starships are how we grunts get places. And ‘the book’ tends to be his bible.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence, more or less. When they arrived at the clinic, on a narrow cobblestone street of shops and apartments, the hatch swung open and they were immediately assaulted by the pungent musk of livestock and manure. “The stockyards are two blocks away,” Kwan explained as they clambered out.

“Remind me not to buy real estate here,” McCoy said.

A motorized trolley rumbled by and belched an ear-splitting backfire from its exhaust pipe. Chekov and McCoy both flinched and ducked, Chekov’s hand went to his phaser-and Wilder said, laughing: “You’ll know when someone’s shooting at us.”

The clinic’s director, Dr. Davaar, came out to greet them. Tenkarans were generally smaller than Terrans, but even by native standards, Davaar was reed-thin and barely up to Chekov’s chin. He bowed to McCoy and Chekov as Kwan introduced them, and his nonstop chatter overflowed with gratitude for Federation assistance and supplies. “In just a few short years, yes? You’ve advanced our medical practice by decades,” Davaar said with a clap of his hands. As Kwan’s troopers moved the crates into the clinic, Davaar gestured for his visitors to follow.

Before they could enter, another explosion erupted and Chekov knew instantly from the ground-shaking roar and pulsing heat that this was no trolley backfire. Roiling, acrid smoke filled the street, and mayhem broke out around him at impossible speed while he felt himself frozen in time and space. Kwan shouted orders and her troopers rushed out of the clinic. Wilder set them in a defensive perimeter on the far side of their transport vehicles. Pedestrians screamed and scrambled for safety. Two more blasts boomed in quick succession, one farther down the street and one right near the clinic. Choked and blinded by smoke and heat, Chekov tripped and fell to his knees. He rubbed his stinging eyes, then wiped them with his sleeve. Through blurred vision, he could see only a cloud of chaos. Amid the shouts and clatter, he heard three short shrieks of phaser fire. He steadied himself, grabbed his own phaser, jumped to his feet, and bumped into Kwan, who squinted into the clearing smoke, trying to figure out what was going on. Wilder trotted back from across the street, with an unconscious Tenkaran man slung over his shoulder.

“Captain, whoever they were, they all got away, except this one,” Wilder said. “No damage, either, other than some broken windows. We suffered no wounded or injured.”

“What the hell were they doing?” Kwan looked around at residents stepping gingerly out of doorways where they’d scurried for shelter, and cautious clinic personnel scanning the scene to see if anyone needed help. “I don’t get it. Chekov, go get McCoy out of the clinic. I think we’d better get you two back to Fort Fed.”

Davaar came up to them. “Captain, Dr. McCoy isn’t in the clinic, yes? Isn’t he with you?”

Kwan cursed through gritted teeth. She ordered half her troops to finish unloading the remaining supplies in a hurry, while she sent Wilder, Chekov, and the others on a sweep of the block, hoping to find McCoy in some safe haven. When they came up empty, Kwan’s entire squad withdrew. As the TVAs rumbled back up to the outpost, grim reality set in: McCoy was gone, and the cuffed prisoner riding with them seemed to be their only lead.

Back at the outpost, Chekov felt very much like a child trespassing on adult turf as he trailed Kwan and Wilder to the brig where the prisoner had been taken directly. “Just so you know,” Kwan told Chekov, “it is my intent to retrieve McCoy safe and sound. But this was the first time we’ve been engaged by the dissidents without provocation, on a public city street and not on a military maneuver. They’ve upped the ante: McCoy was the target, and we don’t know why.”

Chekov had no idea how he was supposed to act, what he was supposed to do, or what anyone expected of him. On the one hand, he was an ensign of twenty-two, with barely two months of starship duty under his belt. On the other hand, Captain Kirk did say he was “commander” of this mission… but what did that mean? Was Kirk going to hold him responsible for McCoy’s disappearance? And what about here and now? Was Kirk’s designation a card worth playing? If he tried, would Kwan just laugh in his face? For the moment, Chekov opted to observe and listen. Improvisation was not his strongest attribute, but he was starting to realize it was a skill he’d better develop if he planned on staying in Starfleet.

When they reached the cell, the Tenkaran prisoner was under guard, bound hand and foot, and seated on a hard chair. Still groggy from being stunned by phaser fire, he’d gathered his wits sufficiently to stand up to Kwan’s questioning and reveal nothing beyond his name and profession: “Apek. Free miner.”

For two hours, Kwan tried every interrogation technique-ranging from affable appeals to harsh threats, and back again. Chekov was no expert, but he detected an intentional rhythm and modulation in Kwan’s approach. Even when she grabbed Apek by the collar and throat and looked like she was about to snap his neck, she was in total command of the room and herself. Unfortunately, nothing rattled the prisoner out of his professed ignorance of the attack at the clinic, McCoy’s abduction, or any dissident missions of sabotage against mining facilities. Then, suddenly, Apek refused to speak at all. Kwan’s fury flared and, for a second, Chekov was sure she was going to slug him. Instead, she turned and stalked out. “Wilder, Chekov, with me,” she growled.

The Fort Fed compound was dark and moonlit when they strode back to the commander’s sparsely furnished office.

“Captain,” Wilder said, “we can’t let this go unanswered. I don’t know if they’ve even read the book, but they’re using it on us: Attack the enemy where he’s unprepared… appear where you’re unexpected. Today it was smoke and noise to distract us, next time it could be real ordnance with real shrapnel slicing off real limbs. Picture that street littered with bodies torn apart, including ours. They crossed a line. Whoever’s responsible, we have to go get ‘em and destroy ‘em.”

Chekov finally spoke up, in a tentative voice. “Doesn’t Sun Tzu also say, ‘Whoever is first in the field and waits for his enemy will be fresh for the fight’? How do you get the upper hand when you’re already behind?”

“Boys,” Kwan said, “you can argue Sun Tzu till the cows come home. Sometimes you gotta make your own rules and improvise.”

Improvise… the word made Chekov wince.

“Captain, permission to speak freely,” Wilder said, a statement rather than a request.

“When have you not? Sure, go ahead, Commander.”

“The gloves come off. This detainee is our only source of intel. This situation warrants use of aggressive, extreme tactics.”

Chekov stared in disbelief. “You’re talking about… torture?”

“Grow up, Ensign.” Wilder sneered. “There’s a whole catalog of coercive strategies.”

Chekov glanced at Kwan and noticed with a flicker of horror that she actually seemed to be considering the idea. “Captain! Torture violates everything Starfleet stands for! It violates Federation law and every civilized code of conduct! And in practical terms, it almost never gets prisoners to give up truthful information!”

“If they won’t let us take the battle to the enemy out there,” Wilder argued, “then we have to do it here, where we’re in control. How do you know they’re not torturing McCoy right now?”

“I don’t,” Chekov shot back. “But that’s still no justification- “

“Morality’s a relative thing when you’re in the trenches.”

“That’s enough,” Kwan said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Morality should never be a relative thing, Commander. They caught us napping down in that street. If they’d wanted to kill us, they could’ve done it then and there. They took McCoy for a reason, and that makes me believe he’s alive. And we’re gonna find him, without selling out who and what we are. Is that clear, Commander?”

Wilder hung his head, just a little. “Aye, Captain. Clear.”

To Chekov’s great relief, extreme interrogation was not an option, after all. Despite the late hour, Kwan decided to get the leader of the planetary council, Prime Minister Obrom, out of bed and demand permission to round up suspected dissidents and sympathizers for questioning, in hopes of shaking out some useful intelligence on who took McCoy and why, and where he was being held. If Wilder had doubts, he kept them to himself for the moment. Kwan left the outpost and drove down to the council chamber in the city.

Chekov sat alone in the mess hall, picking listlessly at a chicken salad platter and wondering if coffee might not be the best beverage right now, considering how late it was and how jangled his nerves were. On the other hand, since he was too wired to fall asleep anyway, the caffeine might be helpful. Kwan had been gone almost two hours-was that a good sign or a bad one?- and he prayed she’d produce a miracle to end this whole nightmare.

He kept thinking he should contact the Enterprise, just to report the situation. But he knew what would happen-Kirk would turn the ship around and speed back to Tenkara, because Chekov clearly was unqualified to be entrusted with a trash detail, much less a shuttle mission and the safety of a fellow crew member. Chekov didn’t know if he could bear the disgrace. But maybe that would be best: just admit failure and let others clean up this mess. At least then he would be stripped of all responsibility for what might ultimately happen to McCoy. Not that he really had any responsibility, or authority for that matter. Nobody listened to him, nobody cared what he had to say. Not that he even had anything to contribute, beyond colossal incompetence. As he took an indifferent sip of lukewarm coffee, he knew the taste of shattered dreams.

A distant howl of what could only be blinding pain jolted him out of his misery. One gruesome scream became a series, and Chekov bolted toward the sounds coming across the courtyard from the next building, from the brig. Not knowing what he’d find, he instinctively grabbed his phaser and confirmed the stun setting. When he reached the cell where the prisoner had been, it was empty. The inhuman shrieks led him to a storage room at the end of the corridor. Two burly young guards stood at the entry, one with dark hair, the other a blond Asian, their backs turned toward what was going on inside. The prisoner Apek hung upside down, wrists and ankles shackled to structural support beams. Wilder held a modified surgical laser tool and he used it to deliver burning shocks to the prisoner’s body. Chekov also saw a barrel filled with water and an unzipped body bag; he didn’t even want to guess how Wilder planned to use those, and he stood momentarily immobilized and speechless.

“He is violating direct orders from Captain Kwan,” Chekov finally said to the guards. Their sullen expressions and unwillingness to look Chekov directly in the eye made their distress clear, but they said nothing and held their ground.

“They have their direct orders,” Wilder called. “Nothing they see here leaves here. If they or you report this, I will deny it, and I will see that your Starfleet careers are ruined.”

Chekov shook his head. “How can you do this? Kwan told you- “

“Kwan is a great commander. Like the book says, she stands for wisdom, sincerity, benevolence, courage… that’s why she can’t do what I can do. We are going to get McCoy back, but we don’t have the luxury of being delicate.”

Chekov took a step forward. The guards shifted to block his way. “This is wrong.”

“I decide what’s right and wrong, Ensign. You can stay, watch, and learn about real life. Or you can get the hell out.”

With a deep breath, Chekov nodded. “All right. I’ll watch, and learn.”

The guards edged out of his way and Chekov entered the torture chamber. Then, though he had a feeling he’d probably end up regretting it, he quickly drew his phaser and shot Wilder, who crumpled to the floor. A second later, before Chekov could brace himself, both guards fired their phasers and he collapsed in a heap.

Chekov woke to find himself on a brig cell cot, locked in by a force field, still feeling the vaguely nauseating aftereffects of getting stunned by phaser fire. The rest of the building was quiet now. Whatever Wilder had intended to do was apparently finished. Beneath the revulsion he still felt toward Wilder, Chekov detected something else-an irritating internal voice nagging him with questions he did not want to answer: Was Wilder justified? Was this the only way to rescue McCoy? If I were in Wilder’s boots, would I be capable of… that?

He heard approaching footsteps and rolled to a sitting position in time to see a grim Kwan turn off the force field. Without a word, Kwan turned and walked off. Chekov followed her back to her office where Wilder already sat. Even though his head was spinning, Chekov remained standing as Kwan looked from one to the other, then sat at her desk.

“Where to begin,” she muttered. “My meeting with Minister Obrom was… unsatisfactory. He’s a bureaucrat who excels at finding reasons to avoid action, no matter what the provocation. He rejected my demands. The notion, as he put it, of Starfleet personnel spiriting Tenkarans off to a dungeon, well, that simply would not do. He was more concerned about being perceived as a puppet controlled by an occupation army than he was about the total withdrawal of Federation and Starfleet support if anything happens to McCoy. Or the potential for the overthrow of his non-puppet government, once we’re not here to prop it up.”

“I told you,” Wilder said.

“Shut up, Commander,” Kwan snapped. “He did agree to have the uniquely inefficient Tenkaran police bring in suspects for questioning. As you can imagine, I was not happy about that. Then I come back to find a severely beaten detainee in my brig, courtesy of you, Mr. Wilder, who became a barbarian in my absence. And you, Mr. Chekov, had the good sense to try and stop him… but failed to do so in an effective manner.”

“When do you get to the part where I succeeded?” Wilder asked.

Chekov’s eyes widened. Wilder smirked at him. Kwan sighed. “So,” she said, “we do have what we believe to be actionable intel, including a location and tactical data on what kind of resistance we’re likely to face. Ensign, if you’re in command, do you or do you not use this information, no matter how it was obtained, to rescue our missing man.”

Chekov frowned, but he honestly didn’t know what to say. “There… are… arguments for both, Captain.”

“In debating class, yes. In the real world, no. We have no idea if this intel is sound or bogus. But we have nothing else to go on, and no way to know if time is running out. So we will mount a covert rescue mission using the information extracted from the detainee. We depart at oh-six-hundred hours.”

Wilder jumped up. “Thank you, Captain. I’ll get the squad saddled up.”

“No, you won’t. You’re not going.”

“But, Captain,” Wilder argued, “I’m the one- “

“- who violated direct orders and Starfleet regulations,” Kwan said, cutting him off with a disdainful look. Yet, somehow, her voice remained level. “There will be an inquiry later. You’ll wait here for the other shoe to drop. Only five of us know what happened to the detainee-you two, two guards, and me. For now, until I figure out what to do, it’s going to stay that way. Is that clear?”

Wilder nodded. Chekov squared his shoulders. “Request permission to go with you, Captain.”

“Denied. I need people I can trust, and neither of you fits the bill. You both stay here.” Kwan shook her head. “And stay out of trouble until we get back.”

Before dawn, Kwan and thirty combat troops boarded the company’s ungainly armored personnel flyer. Chekov and Wilder watched as it lifted off from the center of the compound, headed for an abandoned mining facility in rugged volcanic mountains. And then they waited, unable even to monitor telemetry or communications, since Kwan wanted absolute signal silence to avoid even the slightest chance that their approach would be detected.

When the APF returned, limping in for an unsteady landing four hours later, Chekov’s stomach knotted as soon as he saw the scorch marks pocking its hull. The engines powered down and sighed into silence. Chekov glanced over to catch Wilder chewing his lip in a rare moment of anxiety. Then the hatches hissed and opened, but instead of triumphant troops returning from a rescue, bloodied soldiers climbed out bearing stretchers. The company medic, a sturdy, dark-haired woman named D’Abruzzo, jumped down to the ground and shouted for all medical personnel to report to sickbay. No one stopped for explanations, and Chekov saw no sign of McCoy or Kwan.

Once the wounded had been moved to sickbay, D’Abruzzo caught sight of Chekov and Wilder and came over to them, her face grim and her jaw tight. Chekov tried to squelch that terrible sinking feeling in his gut. “They knew we were coming,” D’Abruzzo said. “They were ready for us. Eight wounded, two dead. Captain Kwan… she died on the way back.”

Wilder didn’t react. Maybe he couldn’t. “What about McCoy?” Chekov said.

D’Abruzzo shook her head. “We never got close. If he was there, which I doubt, no way we could’ve gotten to him. Sorry. I’ve got patients to take care of.” Then she headed for sickbay.

Chekov gave Wilder a contemptuous look. “It looks as if you’re in command now… sir.”

Still, Wilder said nothing and his face revealed nothing. Chekov shook his head in disgust and turned away. He’d done his medic’s rotation on the Enterprise just last month, so he went to sickbay to see if he could help, and to keep himself busy. He didn’t want to think about what was going to happen here next, with Kwan dead-nor did he want to think about facing Kirk when the Enterprise returned.

D’Abruzzo turned out to be a skilled and efficient medic; under her direction, the wounded were stabilized and getting necessary treatment swiftly. Fortunately, none of their injuries exceeded the capacities of the outpost’s sickbay. After two hours of nonstop work, D’Abruzzo finally collapsed on a corner cot. Chekov brought her a fresh cup of coffee. She took it with a nod of thanks.

“What happened out there?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know if it was an intentional trap, or they just got lucky. But we were sitting ducks. The intel had to be bogus. Do you know where it came from?”

Chekov looked away. “Uhh, no, not really.”

D’Abruzzo brushed her sweat-dampened hair off her forehead and exhaled a long, weary breath. “The captain was wounded, but she kept giving orders. She’s why we got away without more casualties. Man, she was the best. I thought if I could just get her back here…” Her voice trailed off and she tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “Posthumous medals disgust me… as if a ribbon could ever make up for a life. But she damn well better get one.”

Chekov patted the medic’s shoulder and left sickbay. He found Wilder in the commander’s office, sitting at the desk with a blank expression on his face. His eyes were red. It took him a few seconds, but he finally looked up at Chekov.

“Whatever you’ve got to say, Ensign, it doesn’t even matter,” Wilder said, his voice as hollow as his stare. “I sold out what we believe, what we’re supposed to stand for… for nothing. Kwan’s dead… because of me. This whole disaster… my fault.”

Chekov really wanted to unload all his pent-up frustration and hatred at Wilder and blame him for everything. But he hesitated. Wilder looked crushed, defeated, and Chekov had his own ethical standards to uphold-he didn’t want to kick a man who was already down, despicable as that man might be. So all he said was: “It was Kwan’s decision to go, not yours. The commander is ultimately responsible. That was her. Now it’s you. What are you going to do?”

Wilder took deep breaths, as if trying to resurrect his shattered soul. “I need to make this right. I need a chance to make sure Kwan didn’t die for nothing. I need to keep this going, for her, in her memory, the way she tried to teach me… not my way.”

A chill ran down Chekov’s spine. “What are you talking about?”

“What happened in that brig room… it stays there. Kwan said it-only five of us knew. Now it’s four. And I outrank you and the guards. What I said stands. If any of you tell anybody, I will bury you.”

“You’re crazy,” Chekov whispered. “What makes you think I won’t report everything that really happened?”

Wilder stood up and loomed over Chekov, toe to toe, jaw muscles twitching and fists clenched at his sides. “There’s no record of what happened, so you have no proof. Whose word are they going to take-a decorated combat commander or a rookie starshipper flyboy?”

Chekov gulped. More than anything else, he wanted to stand up to Kwan, but he wasn’t sure how, or whether it would do any good. And not for the first time on this mission, he found himself wishing he could be anyplace else in the universe. At this point, he just wished the Enterprise was already here to take him away. He needed some time to weigh his options, so he simply backed away from Wilder and left the office. Let him think he’s won… for now.

Back outside, Chekov hunched his shoulders and hiked the perimeter of the compound under the afternoon sun. How could so much go so wrong in a day’s time? Four words kept rattling around in his mind: It’s not my fault. And, objectively, it wasn’t. None of it, up until now. But commanders take responsibility for what happens on their watch, and he was the commander of this mission, in name at least. In practical terms, he had no idea what that meant, how much damage these events-largely out of his control-would inflict on his already tarnished reputation. Would he be court-martialed for dereliction of duty? Or would Starfleet simply send him packing with a general discharge, or worse?

It’s not my fault. There it was again. How would a court-martial panel assess all this? The attack on the clinic certainly wasn’t something he could have foreseen. McCoy’s abduction? Well, that happened under Kwan’s command. He tried to stop Wilder from torturing the prisoner, even to the point of shooting a senior officer (for good cause). He didn’t make the decision to use questionable intelligence-the unfortunate Captain Kwan did that. None of that was my fault.

Letting Wilder get away with a cover-up? Now, that would be my fault.

But who would know? That, after all, was the whole point of a cover-up. But did he want to live the rest of life hiding that kind of secret-that kind of personal failure? There was no other way to describe it. Before Chekov could travel any further down this depressing hypothetical road, he heard shouts coming from the front gate of the compound and he ran toward the commotion. He got there just as Wilder did-and Chekov was nothing short of shocked to see McCoy ambling toward them, escorted by two armed and armored perimeter guards.

Chekov broke out in a huge grin, surged forward, and wrapped the dusty but uninjured McCoy in a bear hug. “Doctor! I am so glad to see you!”

“Well, I’m glad to be seen,” McCoy said as he wrapped an arm around Chekov’s shoulder.

Chekov stepped back for a look. “Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m a mite parched, but other than that,” McCoy said as he patted his own torso, “I’m in one piece.”

Wilder stood in their path. “Chekov’s right, Doctor. We’re thrilled to have you back. Do you need our medic to check you out?”

“No, Commander, I’m fine. Really. A sandwich and a tall, cool drink, I’ll be good as new.”

Wilder nodded. “Good. Let’s get you what you need, and then let’s debrief you.”

“What happened to you?” Chekov asked as they walked toward the mess hall.

McCoy shrugged. “They needed a doctor and wanted to make a point. But other than being blindfolded going to and from wherever the hell they took me, they treated me fine. But where’s Captain Kwan? I’ve got some new information she’s gonna want to hear.” At the mention of Kwan’s name, McCoy could tell from the faces around him that something was very wrong. His eyes narrowed. “Where’s Captain Kwan?”

Wilder’s mouth twitched. “She… she was killed in action, Doctor.”

McCoy stopped in his tracks. “What? What the hell happened?”

With a hand on McCoy’s back, Wilder got them moving again. “We’ll cover that in the debriefing, sir.” McCoy didn’t notice the glances exchanged between Wilder and Chekov, with which Chekov made it clear he wasn’t going away and Wilder made it clear his threat remained operational. With that provisional understanding-or standoff-in place, and McCoy oblivious to the entire subtext, neither man was ready to blink.

Kwan’s death cast a pall over the relief at McCoy’s safe return, and McCoy was visibly heartbroken to learn that she’d been killed leading the misguided mission to rescue him. What he didn’t learn were the circumstances that spawned the rescue mission, because Chekov wasn’t yet ready to challenge Wilder.

Now that McCoy was out of danger, Chekov was surprised and relieved to find himself no longer in the grip of paralyzing stress. Like a ship released from its docking clamps, he felt free to maneuver again, propelled by a reserve of clarity and purpose he thought he’d lost forever. The conflict was actually stunningly elemental: Wilder had staked his future on a lie, while Chekov was trying to stake his on truth.

In order to prevail against an opponent desperately determined to keep his shameful misdeeds hidden, Chekov knew he had to be equally determined to find just the right strategy. He needed the discipline to hold his fire, resist impulse, and pursue alternatives without commitment until there was no doubt his final choice was the best choice. Had he simply blurted out his account, he was reasonably sure McCoy would have believed him. But McCoy hadn’t witnessed the torture; his confidence wouldn’t constitute proof. It would still have been Chekov’s word against Wilder’s. So revelation at this moment would not advance Chekov toward his goal. For now, he would have to plan, watch, and wait.

For the first time since the explosion on the Enterprise, that pervasive feeling of spinning his wheels in sand was being replaced by a semblance of control and purpose. And, possibly for the first time in his life, the word improvise didn’t scare him.

McCoy told them everything he knew. He’d been taken to a mountain stronghold where a group of rebellious miners had holed up. He was asked to treat their leader, named Rivaj, who’d been severely wounded during a recent ambush by Tenkaran forces, which also killed their only healer and destroyed their makeshift medical facility.

“Why you?” asked Wilder. “Why not get a healer from another tribe?”

“Near as I can figure,” McCoy said, “even with that new council, clan rivalries still run deep. They don’t trust anyone from outside their own tribe. It struck me as odd that they’d trust somebody from another planet, and somebody they’d just kidnapped, to boot. But they figured I didn’t have any rooting interest and they promised they’d release me as soon as I was done treating Rivaj. Meanwhile, I figured I’d try to learn more about what makes these dissidents tick.”

“Did you?” Chekov asked.

“I think so. A lot of these tribes are convinced the central government is riddled with corruption, and they believe the Federation turns a blind eye so we’ve got an excuse to annex Tenkara and its resources. I told Rivaj he had to be delirious to believe that, that we don’t annex other worlds, but the Klingons sure do. If it’s us or the Klingons, they’d rather have us. Then Rivaj said something that made me think. He said we’re addicted to dilithium, that we’ll do anything to get it, that without it, we wouldn’t be able to dominate the quadrant. He’s dead sure the only reason we’re here is because the Federation covets their minerals.”

“Did you change his mind?” Chekov asked.

“I told him he could believe what he wanted, that I was just going to fix his wounds because that’s what doctors do, and what he did after that was up to him. I think he found my attitude refreshing.” McCoy allowed himself a satisfied smile. Then he took out a data disc and set it on the table. “But before they released me, Rivaj gave me what he said was evidence that Tenkaran officials were conspiring to hide the true extent of their dilithium reserves. I’m sure the Federation is going to want to look this over and see if there’s anything to it.”

Wilder reached for the disc, but Chekov grabbed it first. Before Wilder could respond, D’Abruzzo’s voice barked from the comm speaker: “Dr. McCoy, we need your help in sickbay!”

Wilder keyed the intercom. “Wilder here. What is it?”

“The prisoner, sir. He’s gone into cardiac arrest. He needs surgery, and this is out of my league.”

“Prisoner?” said McCoy. “Tenkaran?”

“He was captured when they kidnapped you,” Chekov said.

“He resisted arrest,” Wilder said quickly, before Chekov could say anything else. “He got hurt in the pursuit and scuffle.”

“Prep him. I’m on my way!” McCoy bolted for the door.

Wilder and Chekov loitered in the corridor near the operating room, neither seemingly willing to let the other out of his sight. The surgery took about an hour, and when it was done and Apek was out of danger, McCoy came out wearing a forbidding frown. “That man was brutalized,” he said flatly as he stripped off his blood-stained surgical gown. “I’m startin’ to put two and two together here, and I don’t like how it adds up. He must’ve been the source of the bad information Kwan used for that rescue mission. She must’ve been desperate enough to beat it out of him. There’s no other way he could’ve got those injuries. Unless I find out otherwise, that’s what my report’s going to say.”

“You have to be wrong about that, Doctor,” Wilder said. “Starfleet doesn’t condone prisoner abuse. Captain Kwan would never do that. The detainee’s injuries had to have happened at the time of his capture.”

McCoy bristled. “Commander, I know extended torture when I see it.” He leaned back against the wall and shook his head. “Ironic, isn’t it? After a career like hers, her last act is a breech of conduct and she ends up dying for it. That’s how her official record ends, in disgrace.” McCoy turned sadly and went back into sickbay to see if D’Abruzzo needed any more help.

Wilder’s chin dropped and Chekov seized the moment, his voice soft but urgent. “Once Dr. McCoy files his report, what you did will be on the record-on Kwan’s record. Doesn’t she deserve better than that? I’m giving you one last chance to tell what really happened and clear her name.”

Wilder straightened up to his full height and glared down at Chekov. “Don’t threaten me, Ensign. As long as you don’t have any proof-and you never will-it’s still my word against yours. You don’t have the guts to challenge me.” Then he turned his back on Chekov and walked away.

Outside, Chekov found the two brig security officers aimlessly throwing rocks into the perimeter force field just to see the power flares. They weren’t much older than he was, so he hoped he had some idea of how they felt about what they’d witnessed. Robinson, the dark-haired one with the wide eyes, paused with a rock in his hand when Chekov came up to them. “How’s the prisoner?” Robinson asked.

“He’ll live, no thanks to Commander Wilder. Robinson, you know what he did was wrong.”

The other guard, the sandy-haired Asian named Bjorklund, sifted the dirt for more good throwing rocks. “There’s nothing we can do, Chekov.” And that, apparently, was all he had to say.

“You’re a starshipper, you’re leaving, but we’re stuck here,” Robinson said. “Wilder’s our CO, and we don’t know that’s gonna change. You gotta understand.”

“I do. And if it was any one of us against Wilder, you’d be right. But three of us know what happened. We know what time Kwan went to see the prime minister, and we know what time she came back.”

“But that’s circumstantial,” Robinson said. “It doesn’t prove Kwan didn’t beat on the detainee, or that she didn’t order someone else to do it.”

“It’s one more piece of the puzzle, and one more fact that puts pressure on Wilder.”

Robinson kicked at the ground. “Without proof, we’ve got nothing.”

“That’s what I thought, that we’re subordinate officers, questioning a commander’s integrity. No way can we claim he’s lying without being able to prove it.” Chekov’s eyes narrowed. “But that’s not good enough! If we let this go, not only does Wilder get away with it, but we have to live with knowing we let him.”

“I’ve wanted to be in Starfleet since before I could say ‘Starfleet,’ and now you’re telling me to risk throwing it all away for something we can’t prove?”

Chekov ran a hand through his thick mop of hair, trying to conjure a persuasive answer. But there wasn’t one. This wasn’t that kind of argument. Either these guys got it, or they didn’t. And Chekov had a sinking feeling they didn’t. “I’m not telling you anything, Robinson. But I know what I have to do.”

“Throw away your career?” said Robinson as he hurled another rock.

“Starfleet is what we do, it’s not who we are. Whether I wear this uniform or not, I have to look at myself every day and know that my integrity was stronger than my fear. We’re young, and we’re learning something we need to learn-that there won’t always be proof when you need it. Wilder lied. We know it. If we don’t stand up, then a liar gets to define the truth. And I can’t let that happen.” Then Chekov turned and walked away without looking back, feeling very much alone.

When he got to the main courtyard, he saw McCoy standing with Wilder at the shuttle, ready for departure. “Let’s go, Chekov.”

“Thanks for your help, Doctor,” Wilder said as McCoy climbed up and through the hatch. “Sorry for what you went through.”

“No harm, Commander. Once the Federation goes over the information I got from Rivaj and the dissidents, maybe it’ll eventually make your job easier. Sorry about your captain.” McCoy ducked inside the shuttle cabin.

Chekov paused with one foot up on the ladder and looked Wilder square in the eye. “This isn’t over, Commander. I will report what I know to Captain Kirk and Starfleet.”

“It won’t matter,” Wilder said in a dead voice. “You can’t win this one.”

His expression revealed what Chekov suspected-that Wilder was going to be one tortured soul. By contrast, Chekov felt at ease about how he’d handled things. He’d done his best to get the guards to step forward; he’d given Wilder every chance to do the right thing. In the end, he realized he couldn’t control their choices, just his own. His report would tell everything that really happened, and whatever the consequences, he would have no regrets. He was just about to step in and shut the hatch behind him when a voice called from across the compound: “Chekov-wait!”

Chekov and Wilder both turned to see Robinson walking slowly toward them, with Bjorklund trailing a few yards behind. Chekov glanced at Wilder, whose face remained impassive.

“As you were, men,” Wilder said, without much force.

Robinson averted his eyes. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled. “We need to see Dr. McCoy.”

Chekov stepped aside and McCoy peered out through the open hatch. “What’s going on?” he asked, glancing from one man to the next, searching for a hint.

“Ummm, Doctor,” Robinson said, “you’re the ranking officer here. Me and Bjorklund, we need to report to you about… an incident.”

Chekov gave Wilder a probing look. “Unless Commander Wilder wants to tell you himself.”

Wilder stared right back at him. “Without loyalty, there’d be no discipline in the service.”

“Correction, sir,” Chekov said, “without respect for the truth, discipline and service mean nothing.”

Wilder turned to his young guards. “You boys sure about this?”

“What the hell are y’all talking about?” McCoy growled impatiently.

Chekov cleared his throat and waited for Wilder to speak first. When he didn’t, Chekov said, “The prisoner- “

“- was tortured,” Wilder interrupted, “and I was responsible.” Standing ramrod straight, he confessed everything. Robinson and Bjorklund reluctantly confirmed the account, and Chekov added his corroboration.

“Captain Kwan died because of me,” Wilder said to McCoy, his shoulders finally sagging under his burden. “Leaving this stain on her record, on top of that… I can’t do that. But I just want you to know, I did what I thought I had to do to save you, Doctor. I’m ready to face whatever punishment Starfleet chooses.”

Under these extraordinary circumstances, nobody-least of all the flustered McCoy-seemed quite sure what to do next. So, for several awkward seconds, nobody did anything.

“Doctor,” Chekov prompted, “I think you should secure his weapons and place him under arrest for violation of Starfleet’s code of conduct. And we should take him back to the Enterprise.”

McCoy nodded. “Well… all right then, Chekov. Do it.”

En route to rendezvous, Chekov and McCoy transmitted advance reports to Kirk, who relayed them to Starfleet Command. By the time the shuttle docked and Wilder was escorted to the brig, Kirk had Starfleet orders to transport him to the nearest starbase for court-martial. A new officer team would be dispatched to assume command of the outpost on Tenkara. In addition, the information given to McCoy by the dissident miners was already under review by regional Federation officials overseeing the Tenkaran project.

Once Kirk had read their full reports, he and Spock met with McCoy and Chekov in the captain’s office. “Your assessment is pretty blunt, Ensign,” Kirk said warily as he skimmed the file on his computer screen. “I quote: ‘The mission on Tenkara is being compromised by the Federation’s dysfunctional relationship with what may be a corrupt local government, and by counterproductive tactical restrictions placed on Starfleet personnel stationed there.’ Do you want to… reconsider… before I send it to Starfleet?”

“I may only be an ensign, sir, but I know what I saw there,” Chekov said without hesitation. “No, sir. My report stands.”

Kirk smiled. “Good. There’s an old saying: ‘Truth fears no trial.’ If you believe it, and you can back it up, say it-no matter who doesn’t like it. From what Dr. McCoy’s told me, you showed both brains and backbone on this mission. You’ve set yourself a pretty high standard. I’ll expect you to live up to it.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll try.”

“All right, Ensign. Dismissed.”

Chekov turned to leave, then stopped and turned back with a sigh. “Captain, ever since the… the explosion…”

Kirk nodded and finished the sentence for him. “You’ve been afraid of making mistakes.”

Chekov seemed relieved that Kirk said what he couldn’t. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m afraid mistakes are in our DNA. Trying to be perfect is all well and good, as long as you understand it’s an unattainable goal.”

“Expecting to be perfect,” McCoy said, “now, that’s a fool’s errand.”

“Mistakes are inevitable,” Spock added, “especially for humans.” He ignored McCoy’s dirty look.

“Mr. Chekov,” Kirk said lightly, with a humorous glance at Spock, “we’re all going to make mistakes as long as we’re breathing.”

Chekov sighed again. “A lifetime of mistakes… that’s what I have to look forward to?”

“Think of it as… a lifetime of lessons. Mistakes are how we learn to do better.”

“I know I did the right thing,” Chekov said, “so why don’t I feel better about it?”

Kirk smiled again. “Sticking your neck out in defense of the truth can be… unsettling.”

“Ensign,” Spock said, “your decision to report misconduct by a senior officer was entirely logical.”

McCoy gave Chekov’s shoulder an avuncular squeeze. “Just remember what the Bible says: The truth shall make you free.” He paused for effect: “But first, it’ll make you damned miserable.”

Spock’s eyebrow arched. “Doctor, I am thoroughly conversant with Earth’s New Testament. The common biblical quotation does not include your addendum.”

“Well, it should have,” McCoy shot back.

“Ahh… King James,” Kirk said drily, “as revised by Leonard McCoy.”