Constellations (13 page)

“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.”