“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 under
stand.”
“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.”
Fracture
Jeff Bond
Jeff Bond
Jeff Bond is Executive Editor of CFQ (Cinefantastique) magazine and covers film music for The Hollywood Reporter and Film Score Monthly magazine. He is the author of The Music of Star Trek and is coauthoring an upcoming book on makeup artist Rick Baker. He briefly glimpsed a few minutes of Star Trek during its original third season in 1968 and began watching the first syndication package of the show around 1970 in his hometown of Defiance, Ohio, where he eventually drove his family crazy by watching and rewatching every episode of the series dozens of times. He studied creative writing at Bowling Green State University and held down exciting jobs at the Holiday Inn and Kinko’s before moving to Hollywood. There the knowledge and experience he had gained by ignoring his mother’s advice to go outside and get some exercise instead of watching TV could finally bear fruit, and he has been able to interview many of his childhood heroes, like Charlton Heston, William Shatner, John Williams, Jerry Goldsmith, Sigourney Weaver, Richard Matheson, and others. His beautiful and understanding wife, Brooke, continues to put up with his hobbies, which include filling his garage full of spaceship models and action figures, listening to loud movie soundtracks, and becoming speechless with excitement at meeting old character actors like William Windom and Morgan Woodward. Jeff and Brooke currently reside in Burbank, California, with their cat, Burbank.
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