• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“I suppose so, sir.”

Giotto needed to get Chekov to focus on something else, like getting out of here. Anything but what he was obviously still thinking about.

“Chekov,” he said, “tell me about your time at the Academy. Did you like it there?”

“Yes, sir. It was very educational.”

“You sound like Mister Spock. I asked if you liked it there. As in, did you have a good time? Make many friends?”

“Ah, sorry, sir.” Chekov was still as distant as before. “I made a few new friends. I even met somebody I fell in love with.”

“Oh? Tell me about that.”

“Her name is Irina. She attended the Academy for a while, and we spent some time together.”

“The fact that you don’t say more leads me to think it didn’t end well.”

Chekov looked pained. At least he was thinking about something else. “We… separated. She dropped out, there was an argument, we discovered that each of us wanted something different, and there was no future for us together.”

“Do you regret splitting up? Excuse my prying, Ensign, but you sound like you do.”

“Then, I did. It was all a big mistake. I doubt you’re interested.”

He was right, but Giotto wasn’t going to admit that. “I am. You seem uncomfortable talking about it. Wounds still raw?”

“You could say that, sir. I mean, we both knew it wasn’t going to work, but that didn’t change how I felt. And still do.”

“My dad used to say you weren’t a man if you hadn’t had a broken heart.” What Giotto didn’t say was that he’d always thought this was a load of bullshit.

Chekov didn’t reply. With his beaten face—the left side of it was starting to turn purple, and there was an open cut on his chin—his matted-down hair, and bloody uniform, Chekov looked like a man out of options.

Even if they made it out of here alive, which now seemed at least within the realm of possibility, Giotto was kicking himself that he’d let the situation unfold so that the captain had to come to his rescue. This was something a good security chief just didn’t do. And despite—

“They hurt me.”

Chekov was once again staring straight ahead, with wide, empty eyes. Giotto decided to wait, to see if anything more followed that revelatory statement. He knew it was a first step on a very long and difficult road.

“They wanted to use my phaser, but I wouldn’t tell them how… so they used their own devices.”

“They—” Giotto interrupted himself to glance at the door. The plasma cutter had made it halfway along the bottom. He couldn’t let them continue. He fired at the spot where the cutter’s beam was coming through. There was a hiss, followed by intense light, and then the beam was gone. Giotto hoped he’d destroyed the tool, but he’d at least slowed them down. “They’re outside, they can’t reach you.”

“Commander, they wanted to know everything I knew. I gave them nothing, but they wouldn’t stop. They kept asking and hurting me, and I wanted to stay brave and silent and courageous, but…” He broke, then. It was terrible to witness—even for Giotto, who’d had his share of traumatic experiences. A young officer, reduced to a sobbing heap.

“They can’t hurt you now.” Giotto stretched out his hand to pat Chekov on the shoulder, but he caught himself. Chekov didn’t need superficial consoling gestures, he needed actual help.

The sound of a plasma beam being switched on made him turn again. It would come down to a final showdown. He was up for it. The anger he felt was fueled by what they had done to Chekov. Giotto watched the small, thin flame cut across the remaining section of the door. When it reached the side frame, it was switched off. Any moment now, he knew, the door would open, and they’d be outnumbered.

Outside, he heard muffled noises that sounded like weapons fire, interspersed with high and low squeaks. Chekov was lying on his side, sobbing violently, his arms slung around his knees.

Then, the noise outside died. Giotto raised his phaser, waiting for the door to open. Something was stuck in the thin gap in the door the cutter had left. He heard clanging noises, followed by a strange, multipitched groaning. Slowly but surely, the door rose. Before