Gravity
Title: Gravity
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Chekov/Sulu
Warnings: None, really.
Summary: On an apparently peaceful diplomatic mission, the Enterprise is attacked and Sulu has to make some difficult decisions.
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, it belongs to Paramount and Gene Roddenberry.
A/N: Team Chulu are evil enablers and I love them.
"Okay, okay," Sulu laughed, holding his hands up in surrender. "I accept that you've got to compensate for the difference in specific energy when you transport someone from orbit to a planet, or planet to orbit. I still think it's the total power that matters, not the direction."
From across the console, Chekov grinned at him. "If you are talking about the transporter itself, you are correct. But you must also have an outlet for the power you use. From planet to orbit, it is no problem. The power comes from the fusion reactor and is used to increase the potential and kinetic energy of the transported object so that it has the energy it should have at the destination. This is why you must stand still."
Chekov flicked a sly glance at him, and Sulu rolled his eyes in exasperation. One day, the ensign was going to say that once too often, and then Sulu would have his revenge. Tickling him might be good; Chekov was extraordinarily sensitive behind his knees . . .
"To transport someone from orbit to planet, however, is harder," Chekov continued, snapping Sulu out of his half-visualized fantasy. "On a planet, a person has less energy than they do in orbit. That energy must go somewhere. We usually send it back to the reactor. Therefore using the transporter, on average, requires very little power!"
Chekov was trying to look serious, but his mischievous look, overlaid with the satisfaction of winning the argument, meant that he'd failed before he'd even started. Sulu didn't mind being out-disputed, though, since he secretly adored that particular expression of Chekov's.
"Kirk to Enterprise," the comm system said suddenly. "We're taking a break for lunch down here. Spock and Uhura assure me that we're getting somewhere with these negotiations. Personally, I can't tell whether Uhura's being polite to these guys or having a screaming row with them, since the importance of a conversation down here seems to be reflected by its volume." Kirk went silent for a moment, and the bridge crew could distinctly hear the sound of Spock muttering something in the background. "Sulu, is there any change in the situation up there?"
"No, sir," Sulu said promptly. "All quiet."
"Wish I could say the same," Kirk complained. "Spock thinks it'll be another few hours before we're done for the day, but we should be back on board before shift change."
"Understood, Captain."
"Kirk out."
The light that indicated that the comm system was active went out, and Sulu leaned back in his chair. Maybe he should have kept up the discussion on transporter theory. It looked like it was going to be a boring shift.
A frantic beeping burst from Chekov's console. "Lieutenant Sulu! We have incoming missiles!"
"Shields up, red alert!" Sulu reached for the helm on automatic, feeding in evasive maneuvers almost before his eyes had a chance to catch up with what was happening. The Enterprise was sluggish under his hands, unwilling to give up her orbital inertia. "Where are they coming from?" he demanded over the wail of the alert sirens.
"Shields are . . ."
An explosion vibrated through the deck plates, but the inertial dampeners and artificial gravity held. Everyone stayed firmly seated, even as the deck trembled under their feet.
"Up," Chekov finished. The displays showed Sulu bursts of activity as the Enterprise's efficient shields held off the rest of the missiles, the explosives giving up their payloads far short of their intended target. "The missiles came from the planet, sir." Red light reflected off Chekov's hair and in his eyes, echoing the determination and utter seriousness that was always just under the young navigator's skin.
"Engineering to Bridge, Scotty here. Mr. Sulu, what are you doing to my ship?"
"I'm trying to avoid getting holes in it, Mr. Scott," Sulu replied, his attention half on his console and half on the conversation.
"Great. Fine. Did I mention that there's a great gaping hole where the aft torpedo launchers used to be? No casualties, thank goodness."
Sulu winced. "I'm just about to contact the planet and ask them what they think they're doing."
"Aye, and you can tell them to keep their filthy paws off my lady here. Scotty out."
Even though they were in the midst of a red alert, Sulu smiled. Trust Scotty to get possessive about the Enterprise. "Chekov, get me . . ." As Sulu was about to order Chekov to raise the planet, he was interrupted.
The ensign at the sensor station turned her head to shout, "Picking up a ship on short-range sensors. It's heavily armed, sir. Looks like it just launched from the planet."
"What do they think they're doing?" Sulu muttered under his breath, more as an expression of puzzlement than in any real hope that he'd be answered.
"It's firing!" Chekov added.
Well, that answered that question. "Return fire," Sulu ordered even as the Enterprise, awake now, swept into another evasive pattern. More missiles bounced off the shields. "Aim for engines and weapons only."
"Of course, sir." Chekov sounded slightly insulted, and Sulu made a mental note to apologize later.
As the Enterprise rolled aside, the enemy ship fired a sparkling ball of green energy. It looked almost pretty on the viewscreen, expanding towards them at an accelerated rate.
"It's some kind of electrical pulse!" the ensign at sensors reported. "It . . ."
Her voice was drowned out by the crackle of the ship's electronics going haywire. Sparks trickled off the overhead lights, circuits popping and smoking as overloaded capacitors failed to cope with the power surge.
"It's overloading our shields!" Chekov reported, his fingers flying over the console. "It's like a parasite in reverse, the longer our shields are up, the more damage it does."
The bridge went dark for a moment, then flickered back on emergency circuits. "Drop shields, then put them up again immediately," Sulu ordered. He knew that he was taking a terrible risk. If the enemy ship fired missiles while the shields were down, the Enterprise would be defenseless. But if Chekov was right - and he usually was - then the shields would fail soon anyway, along with the rest of the Enterprise's systems. Better to do this under controlled circumstances, while they still had a chance of powering them up again.
"Aye," Chekov replied. "Dropping shields now."
Sulu, concentrating on the malfunctioning controls and incoming damage reports, could only see Chekov out of the corner of his eye. The other man was working busily, one arm lifted to shield his eyes from the ever-present sparks. His yellow shirt was becoming speckled with pinpricks of black.
"Rai -"
Chekov's console exploded.
There was a flash of yellow-orange light, and Chekov cried out. It took a moment for Sulu to realize that Chekov was lying motionless on the deck, burned and bloody, illuminated by the burning navigation console. The alert lights splashed red over Chekov's still form, and Sulu was abruptly swamped with rage. More than anything, he wanted to forget about the battle and carry Chekov down to Sickbay. But though it twisted his stomach, he had more to worry about than one ensign.
A yeoman was already spraying carbon dioxide on the fire to Sulu's right, curls of vapor pouring from it and misting up the bridge. "Ensign Anderson, transfer tactical control to your station. Get those shields up!" Leaning sideways, he slapped the intercom open. "Bridge to Sickbay, we need a trauma team up here, now." He didn't bother waiting for a response before closing the channel.
"Shields are up, sir!"
And only just in time. A barrage of those ineffective missiles splashed against the Enterprise's weakened but still-functioning shields, and Sulu hauled the ship around in a maneuver that he knew would strain the hull past official limits. The Enterprise groaned and shuddered in protest, but held.
"Let's get these bastards," Sulu snarled.
* * *
Chekov blinked awake, feeling pleasantly floaty and numb. He didn't seem to be numb everywhere, however, as there was a distinct warm pressure on his left hand.
"Hikaru," he mumbled, tongue thick and sleepy.
"Pavel?" Hikaru came into view above him, the warmth and affection in his voice making Chekov's lips curl up at the edges. "How do you feel?"
Chekov took a moment to take inventory. What he could see of himself above the sheets was half covered in white bandages, with gel pads peeking out from under the edges. He recognized the pads as a slow-acting burn treatment. "At the moment, I do not feel much at all. I was injured?"
Hikaru's hand tightened, the pressure more reassuring than painful. "Your console exploded on you. Do you remember?"
Chekov concentrated. "There was a flash of light, and a bang. Not that sort!" he added hastily, as Sulu looked like he was trying not to laugh. "After that, I remember nothing."
Sulu smiled as if he was trying not to cry. "Want me to fill you in on the details?"
Chekov would have snorted if he hadn't been feeling so loose and relaxed. "Mmmm. Da."
"After you, well, we disabled the ship. Turns out they were from a particular political faction who wanted the negotiations to fail. The planet's leaders fell over themselves apologizing, Kirk got to shout at people, and we got the treaty. The Captain and the rest of the diplomatic team are all back on board now, but we're staying in orbit until the repairs are finished. Not a bad day's work."
Sulu bit his lip, and Chekov suddenly understood. "A very good day's work," he agreed. "You saved the ship, and I am still here for you to tell me this."
"But I nearly . . . you nearly weren't," Sulu replied bitterly. "I had to leave you there, in the middle of battle. Pretend that you didn't exist, because if I'd thought about it, I'd . . ." He trailed off.
"This is why you will be good captain one day," Chekov said as firmly as he could. "You do what needs to be done. After all, if you had not saved the ship, there would have been no sickbay for me to recover in."
Sulu laughed shakily. "Yeah. Guess so."
"Ah, Chekov. You're awake." Doctor McCoy swept back the curtain that had shielded the two men from the rest of Sickbay, cutting off the soundproofing effect that had prevented Chekov from hearing anything but Sulu's voice. "Could you please tell Sulu to go get some rest? He's been hovering over you like an old mother hen ever since he came off shift." McCoy looked up at the readouts above Chekov's bed, apparently engrossed in the slowly fluctuating numbers.
"When was that?" Chekov asked, curious.
"Doesn't . . ." Sulu was prevented from replying by a yawn that made Chekov wonder why his jaw hadn't dislocated.
"Quite a few hours," McCoy said briskly. "Sulu, I want you to get eight hours sleep, and that's an order. Mr. Chekov is responding well to treatment, so he should be out of Sickbay by then."
Sulu looked back at Chekov. The younger man couldn't muster the energy to nod, but he smiled instead. "Is okay, Hikaru."
Sulu sighed, and squeezed his hand once more before releasing it. "See you soon, okay?"
Chekov's fingers felt cold without that constant warmth, and he had to stop himself for trying to grab Sulu and pull him down next to him on the biobed so that he could be warm all over. "Okay," he repeated.
Chekov watched Sulu until the other man disappeared from sight. He knew that Sulu was probably still feeling guilty, but he could handle that. He would tell Sulu over and over again that it wasn't his fault, and maybe someday he'd believe him.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Chekov/Sulu
Warnings: None, really.
Summary: On an apparently peaceful diplomatic mission, the Enterprise is attacked and Sulu has to make some difficult decisions.
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, it belongs to Paramount and Gene Roddenberry.
A/N: Team Chulu are evil enablers and I love them.
"Okay, okay," Sulu laughed, holding his hands up in surrender. "I accept that you've got to compensate for the difference in specific energy when you transport someone from orbit to a planet, or planet to orbit. I still think it's the total power that matters, not the direction."
From across the console, Chekov grinned at him. "If you are talking about the transporter itself, you are correct. But you must also have an outlet for the power you use. From planet to orbit, it is no problem. The power comes from the fusion reactor and is used to increase the potential and kinetic energy of the transported object so that it has the energy it should have at the destination. This is why you must stand still."
Chekov flicked a sly glance at him, and Sulu rolled his eyes in exasperation. One day, the ensign was going to say that once too often, and then Sulu would have his revenge. Tickling him might be good; Chekov was extraordinarily sensitive behind his knees . . .
"To transport someone from orbit to planet, however, is harder," Chekov continued, snapping Sulu out of his half-visualized fantasy. "On a planet, a person has less energy than they do in orbit. That energy must go somewhere. We usually send it back to the reactor. Therefore using the transporter, on average, requires very little power!"
Chekov was trying to look serious, but his mischievous look, overlaid with the satisfaction of winning the argument, meant that he'd failed before he'd even started. Sulu didn't mind being out-disputed, though, since he secretly adored that particular expression of Chekov's.
"Kirk to Enterprise," the comm system said suddenly. "We're taking a break for lunch down here. Spock and Uhura assure me that we're getting somewhere with these negotiations. Personally, I can't tell whether Uhura's being polite to these guys or having a screaming row with them, since the importance of a conversation down here seems to be reflected by its volume." Kirk went silent for a moment, and the bridge crew could distinctly hear the sound of Spock muttering something in the background. "Sulu, is there any change in the situation up there?"
"No, sir," Sulu said promptly. "All quiet."
"Wish I could say the same," Kirk complained. "Spock thinks it'll be another few hours before we're done for the day, but we should be back on board before shift change."
"Understood, Captain."
"Kirk out."
The light that indicated that the comm system was active went out, and Sulu leaned back in his chair. Maybe he should have kept up the discussion on transporter theory. It looked like it was going to be a boring shift.
A frantic beeping burst from Chekov's console. "Lieutenant Sulu! We have incoming missiles!"
"Shields up, red alert!" Sulu reached for the helm on automatic, feeding in evasive maneuvers almost before his eyes had a chance to catch up with what was happening. The Enterprise was sluggish under his hands, unwilling to give up her orbital inertia. "Where are they coming from?" he demanded over the wail of the alert sirens.
"Shields are . . ."
An explosion vibrated through the deck plates, but the inertial dampeners and artificial gravity held. Everyone stayed firmly seated, even as the deck trembled under their feet.
"Up," Chekov finished. The displays showed Sulu bursts of activity as the Enterprise's efficient shields held off the rest of the missiles, the explosives giving up their payloads far short of their intended target. "The missiles came from the planet, sir." Red light reflected off Chekov's hair and in his eyes, echoing the determination and utter seriousness that was always just under the young navigator's skin.
"Engineering to Bridge, Scotty here. Mr. Sulu, what are you doing to my ship?"
"I'm trying to avoid getting holes in it, Mr. Scott," Sulu replied, his attention half on his console and half on the conversation.
"Great. Fine. Did I mention that there's a great gaping hole where the aft torpedo launchers used to be? No casualties, thank goodness."
Sulu winced. "I'm just about to contact the planet and ask them what they think they're doing."
"Aye, and you can tell them to keep their filthy paws off my lady here. Scotty out."
Even though they were in the midst of a red alert, Sulu smiled. Trust Scotty to get possessive about the Enterprise. "Chekov, get me . . ." As Sulu was about to order Chekov to raise the planet, he was interrupted.
The ensign at the sensor station turned her head to shout, "Picking up a ship on short-range sensors. It's heavily armed, sir. Looks like it just launched from the planet."
"What do they think they're doing?" Sulu muttered under his breath, more as an expression of puzzlement than in any real hope that he'd be answered.
"It's firing!" Chekov added.
Well, that answered that question. "Return fire," Sulu ordered even as the Enterprise, awake now, swept into another evasive pattern. More missiles bounced off the shields. "Aim for engines and weapons only."
"Of course, sir." Chekov sounded slightly insulted, and Sulu made a mental note to apologize later.
As the Enterprise rolled aside, the enemy ship fired a sparkling ball of green energy. It looked almost pretty on the viewscreen, expanding towards them at an accelerated rate.
"It's some kind of electrical pulse!" the ensign at sensors reported. "It . . ."
Her voice was drowned out by the crackle of the ship's electronics going haywire. Sparks trickled off the overhead lights, circuits popping and smoking as overloaded capacitors failed to cope with the power surge.
"It's overloading our shields!" Chekov reported, his fingers flying over the console. "It's like a parasite in reverse, the longer our shields are up, the more damage it does."
The bridge went dark for a moment, then flickered back on emergency circuits. "Drop shields, then put them up again immediately," Sulu ordered. He knew that he was taking a terrible risk. If the enemy ship fired missiles while the shields were down, the Enterprise would be defenseless. But if Chekov was right - and he usually was - then the shields would fail soon anyway, along with the rest of the Enterprise's systems. Better to do this under controlled circumstances, while they still had a chance of powering them up again.
"Aye," Chekov replied. "Dropping shields now."
Sulu, concentrating on the malfunctioning controls and incoming damage reports, could only see Chekov out of the corner of his eye. The other man was working busily, one arm lifted to shield his eyes from the ever-present sparks. His yellow shirt was becoming speckled with pinpricks of black.
"Rai -"
Chekov's console exploded.
There was a flash of yellow-orange light, and Chekov cried out. It took a moment for Sulu to realize that Chekov was lying motionless on the deck, burned and bloody, illuminated by the burning navigation console. The alert lights splashed red over Chekov's still form, and Sulu was abruptly swamped with rage. More than anything, he wanted to forget about the battle and carry Chekov down to Sickbay. But though it twisted his stomach, he had more to worry about than one ensign.
A yeoman was already spraying carbon dioxide on the fire to Sulu's right, curls of vapor pouring from it and misting up the bridge. "Ensign Anderson, transfer tactical control to your station. Get those shields up!" Leaning sideways, he slapped the intercom open. "Bridge to Sickbay, we need a trauma team up here, now." He didn't bother waiting for a response before closing the channel.
"Shields are up, sir!"
And only just in time. A barrage of those ineffective missiles splashed against the Enterprise's weakened but still-functioning shields, and Sulu hauled the ship around in a maneuver that he knew would strain the hull past official limits. The Enterprise groaned and shuddered in protest, but held.
"Let's get these bastards," Sulu snarled.
* * *
Chekov blinked awake, feeling pleasantly floaty and numb. He didn't seem to be numb everywhere, however, as there was a distinct warm pressure on his left hand.
"Hikaru," he mumbled, tongue thick and sleepy.
"Pavel?" Hikaru came into view above him, the warmth and affection in his voice making Chekov's lips curl up at the edges. "How do you feel?"
Chekov took a moment to take inventory. What he could see of himself above the sheets was half covered in white bandages, with gel pads peeking out from under the edges. He recognized the pads as a slow-acting burn treatment. "At the moment, I do not feel much at all. I was injured?"
Hikaru's hand tightened, the pressure more reassuring than painful. "Your console exploded on you. Do you remember?"
Chekov concentrated. "There was a flash of light, and a bang. Not that sort!" he added hastily, as Sulu looked like he was trying not to laugh. "After that, I remember nothing."
Sulu smiled as if he was trying not to cry. "Want me to fill you in on the details?"
Chekov would have snorted if he hadn't been feeling so loose and relaxed. "Mmmm. Da."
"After you, well, we disabled the ship. Turns out they were from a particular political faction who wanted the negotiations to fail. The planet's leaders fell over themselves apologizing, Kirk got to shout at people, and we got the treaty. The Captain and the rest of the diplomatic team are all back on board now, but we're staying in orbit until the repairs are finished. Not a bad day's work."
Sulu bit his lip, and Chekov suddenly understood. "A very good day's work," he agreed. "You saved the ship, and I am still here for you to tell me this."
"But I nearly . . . you nearly weren't," Sulu replied bitterly. "I had to leave you there, in the middle of battle. Pretend that you didn't exist, because if I'd thought about it, I'd . . ." He trailed off.
"This is why you will be good captain one day," Chekov said as firmly as he could. "You do what needs to be done. After all, if you had not saved the ship, there would have been no sickbay for me to recover in."
Sulu laughed shakily. "Yeah. Guess so."
"Ah, Chekov. You're awake." Doctor McCoy swept back the curtain that had shielded the two men from the rest of Sickbay, cutting off the soundproofing effect that had prevented Chekov from hearing anything but Sulu's voice. "Could you please tell Sulu to go get some rest? He's been hovering over you like an old mother hen ever since he came off shift." McCoy looked up at the readouts above Chekov's bed, apparently engrossed in the slowly fluctuating numbers.
"When was that?" Chekov asked, curious.
"Doesn't . . ." Sulu was prevented from replying by a yawn that made Chekov wonder why his jaw hadn't dislocated.
"Quite a few hours," McCoy said briskly. "Sulu, I want you to get eight hours sleep, and that's an order. Mr. Chekov is responding well to treatment, so he should be out of Sickbay by then."
Sulu looked back at Chekov. The younger man couldn't muster the energy to nod, but he smiled instead. "Is okay, Hikaru."
Sulu sighed, and squeezed his hand once more before releasing it. "See you soon, okay?"
Chekov's fingers felt cold without that constant warmth, and he had to stop himself for trying to grab Sulu and pull him down next to him on the biobed so that he could be warm all over. "Okay," he repeated.
Chekov watched Sulu until the other man disappeared from sight. He knew that Sulu was probably still feeling guilty, but he could handle that. He would tell Sulu over and over again that it wasn't his fault, and maybe someday he'd believe him.