Series: TOS; Pairing: K/f?; Rating: Mildly adult; Summary: Gender bender

About Last Night

Even though the work of the Enterprise was split into four shifts, to promote the most efficient use of all its facilities, there were times and places when the phrase 'dead of night' seemed all too appropriate. As he watched Engineer Third Class Devan Hooli rubbing the sleep from his eyes and peering at the console in the transporter room, Ensign Chekov couldn't help feeling he'd be getting a quicker response if he'd roused a week old corpse from McCoy's stasis unit rather than the plump little tech who had been nodding over a Manga comic while nominally on duty.

"This is urgent, Mister Hooli," Chekov insisted, not for the first time.

Hooli nodded earnestly. "Don't rush me, sir. I'll forget something important. I've never used the transporter when it's been left on standby." The tech glanced up and seemed to mistake Chekov's impatience for anxiety. "Now, don't worry. It's all covered by fail-safes and safeguards. It's just if I do it wrong, I'll have to start over."

Chekov rolled his eyes.

"I'm doing my best," Hooli pleaded. "What's the rush anyway? Or is it top secret?"

Chekov nodded, enjoying Hooli's wide-eyed reaction. "Top secret, Mister Hooli. But also urgent, so much so that if you don't have this transporter operational within two minutes, I shall be forced to order you to suit up and jet this dispatch over to the Souda Bay in person."

"Why..." Hooli began to ask, then smiled in embarrassment. His teeth were startlingly white in his brown face. "Sorry, sir."

Chekov frowned a superior frown. He had no intention of admitting that he'd been through almost the same exchange with Lieutenant Uhura before she'd entrusted the data wafer to him and gone off to her bunk.

"I wish I was an officer and knew what was happening around here sometimes," Hooli said longingly.

Chekov couldn't help his frown relaxing into a smile of fellow feeling. He noticed a flashing light on Hooli's console.

"Shouldn't that..." he began.

"What? Oh, don't worry about that, sir. Mister Scott said it didn't matter. He's going to fix it tomorrow... Or later today, I suppose, now."

Looking over the console from the wrong side, Chekov couldn't identify what the light had signified. It was no longer flashing, anyway.

"Transporters are the safest way to travel," Hooli assured him disingenuously. "You're more likely to injure yourself stepping down off the pad than during transport..."

"But I would probably recover from a twisted ankle," Chekov interrupted, taking his place on the pad with exaggerated care. "Are you ready now?"

"Yes, sir," Hooli replied. "Admiral Leon's office on the Souda Bay. Do you want to double check the coordinates?"

Chekov stared at the tech, trying to decide if this offer was sarcasm or a genuine attempt to calm his imagined worries. "I thought the transporter automatically reconfirmed pre-programmed transporter destinations?"

Hooli shrugged. "You seemed nervous."

"I am not nervous. Can we get on with this, please. I want to get to sleep before I have to wake up again."

Hooli nodded, unruffled, and moved the lever.

***

As always, there was no sensation associated with using the transporter. What was unusual was Chekov's awareness of the lack of sensation, and of its duration.

It lasted, it seemed, for some moments before it occurred to him that Admiral Leon's office might simply be closed, and therefore dark and silent. He dismissed the possibility. Lieutenant Uhura had told him he would be expected, and on a starship, particularly an old one like the Souda Bay, even a locked, deserted office would contain emergency lights, and hum with the whisper of air circulation. The pressure of the deck would register against the soles of a man's feet. He would feel the blink of his eye, however blind.

No sensation.

At all.

~I'm dead,~ Chekov thought. ~Hooli's killed me.~

***

The passage of time continued, unquantified but undeniable.

Chekov wondered how long it would be before he went mad, then reflected that in the absence of external references he would probably never know it if he did become insane.

Perhaps he was not actually dead, but insane already. Maybe at this very moment, Doctor McCoy was standing over him in sick bay, saying to the captain, 'He's alive, but his mind is completely gone. There's nothing I can do.'

Chekov concentrated on making the visual idea of sickbay, and its occupants, as real as possible. He wasn't very good at the exercise. As often as he'd lain on a biobed and looked up to see McCoy hovering over him, he couldn't make the image seem properly solid. Maybe if he tried with something he felt more strongly about. Like the idiot transporter tech. Where would Hooli be now?

~Devan Hooli, I'm going to haunt you. You're going to feel a sudden drop in temperature, then a gray mist will descend over your eyes and...~

The image of Hooli clicked into solid, unchanging being. Chekov stared at it. There was something wrong with it. Something he couldn't quite identify. Still, it was a good deal more satisfying than his earlier attempts at...

He could feel too. The cold metal lip of the washbasin was digging into his hips as he leaned forward.

"Hooli, I've come to haunt you."

Hooli spoke simultaneously, but said nothing. Chekov frowned at him.

Hooli frowned too.

The flaw in Hooli's appearance suddenly became apparent. It was a mirror image. Chekov was looking out of Hooli's eyes at Hooli's reflection in a restroom mirror.

What the hell was the tech doing hiding in the bathroom? Why hadn't he reported the accident?

Chekov looked down. Below the mirror was a wash basin incorporating a disposal chute. Hooli had been tearing a flimsy piece of plastic into shreds, as if he'd been about to trash them. With Hooli's hands, Chekov spread the plastic over the wet surface of the basin, pasting the fragments down. They'd stretched in places. The puzzle was hard to complete. There was a faint metallic rattle as something he'd been holding hit the basin. He grabbed at it and his fingers closed uncertainly round a flake of metal, thin as paper, barely bigger than a credit card. It bore touch pads. It could be almost anything, but Chekov guessed it was a transmitter of some kind. Why else would Hooli lock himself in the rest room to use it?

It trembled in his fingers, faintly. Live and sending... or receiving. And then it stopped.

Chekov turned his attention to the plastic again. It was only numbers anyway. So Hooli was sending numbers to someone...

The dispatch. It had been important, Uhura had said as much. Important enough for some enemy of Starfleet to divert a transport in order to get hold of it?

The numbers could be alternate coordinates, or the program sequence to wipe any record of the diversion from the computer. Hooli had noted down a sequence of numbers, and then sent them, or been about to send them... It mattered which. Hooli would have torn them up after sending them.

Chekov studied the sequence. It meant nothing to him, but he had a useful ability to remember numbers. He read them through twice and repeated them back to himself, then checked the accuracy of his recall. Excellent. He wouldn't forget it.

And now what?

Chekov stood there for a moment, unable to gather his thoughts and decide what to do. The plastic dried, curled, rolled down into the disposal unit. It didn't matter. He knew the numbers. Hooli was a traitor. Hooli had killed him, but for the moment, he seemed to be in control of Hooli...

Of course. He'd simply call security. They might take some convincing but...

He shivered. Hooli shivered. He stared down at the last fragments of plastic and realized that Hooli's fingers had convulsively crumpled them. His knees buckled, and he grabbed at the edge of the basin to steady himself.

His vision darkened and narrowed. The taste of bile rose in his throat.

He stared into Hooli's suddenly panicked face. You killed me, Devan Hooli. You can't complain if...

He extracted himself from Hooli like the last swirl of water emptying from a bath.

Of course. Hooli had been sending the message and it had been interrupted. The enemy had responded by killing their agent before he could betray them. Or maybe they'd intended to kill him all along. Maybe they had the numbers, maybe they didn't. It mattered.

But I was too quick for you, Chekov reflected with satisfaction. I'm... dead already. The satisfaction evaporated. He was back in the dark.

It mattered. The numbers mattered. Telling someone mattered. In a few hours, Hooli's presence in the locked restroom would be noticed, but... Chekov couldn't do nothing until then.

If he'd found Hooli, he could find someone else. It would be easier to find someone else.

He felt strangely awkward though, at the idea of taking over another person, as he had Hooli. After all, his unexpected arrival had probably killed Hooli. What might happen if he interrupted someone else at a vital moment?

He wished he hadn't only arrived back on the E half an hour ago, that he'd had a chance to settle in, instead of going straight to the bridge. He didn't know who was on duty, who was even on the ship. There was no point locating some officer who'd already passed out under a table on the Station.

Uhura had been yawning even as he'd taken the packet from her. She could be asleep. If he went there, he might simply find himself asleep too.

How ridiculous, not to know who was alert and on duty.

He felt a wave of helpless anger at his situation. Strange anger. Anger that didn't wind up his pulse or twist his muscles into fight readiness. Cool, cool anger. Anger like Vulcans must feel.

Vulcans. Mister Spock reputedly required only three or four hours of sleep each night, depending on who was speculating. (There were other outrageous speculations that Chekov preferred to forget.) And Spock was a master of mental control. There was at least a possibility that Spock would not be dislodged by Chekov's arrival. He concentrated on Spock. Nothing happened. How had he... Ah, yes. He concentrated on haunting Spock.

He became aware of the acrid scratch of incense in the back of his throat. Heat. Something hard in contact with his shoulder blades, hips and spine. Something pressing up, aggressively against him. The roar of unfamiliar circulation in his ears. Darkness.

Chekov tried to open his eyes, and failed. Tried to move his hands. Failed.

Hm. Additional gravity, desert temperatures, sleeping on a slab of granite... Maybe all those stories were true after all. In which case, Spock was asleep. Oh well... He though about who else might be awake. Spock would know. Maybe Chekov could wake him.

~~Mr Spock?~~

No reaction. No discernible reaction, Chekov corrected. The double quick tattoo of the Vulcan's blood continued to beat evenly.

~Mister Spock!?~

Chekov thought he was thinking louder, but he couldn't be sure. He tried to interact with the Vulcan's body, the way he had with Hooli's, but nothing seemed to connect. He was giving all the right instructions, but they were leaking out of the system somewhere.

He had to find someone who was actually awake.

Hm. If Spock was asleep, then there was a reasonable chance that the gamma shift were on duty. Chekov knew very few gamma personnel. At any rate, he knew few of them well enough to feel completely happy about moving into their bodies without an invitation. Still, this was important. Lieutenant Marples was a sensible, matter of fact kind of person, from the little Chekov had seen.

The ensign drew in a virtual breath and prepared to move on.

Nothing.

He didn't know how he'd moved before, but he couldn't move now. Maybe Hooli's death had been necessary to catapult him from one body to the next.

Maybe that meant his own body was dead.

~Mister Spock...~ he thought, one last time.

~Ensign Chekov.~

~Mister Spock. Thank God...~

There was a gluey silence.

~Explain.~

~I think someone has stolen my body and left my mind behind. I thought about you, about telling you what was happening, because I thought you were more likely to be awake than anyone else...~

~Slow down. Who has stolen your body?~

~Captain Kirk asked me to deliver a data wafer personally to Admiral Leon on the Souda Bay. I don't know what was on the wafer...~

~I do. Codes of great interest to the Orions.~ A moment of palpable embarrassment revealed that Spock hadn't meant to let Chekov know that, but perhaps hadn't been able to prevent the thought. ~Continue.~

~Oh. Well. I went to the transporter room and requested transport to the Souda, but Engineer Hooli did something -- I don't know what -- and my mind got left behind. I thought I was dead, and I... I wondered what Hooli had done. I was thinking about him, and then I was looking out of his eyes, into a mirror in the restroom on deck 12. But someone had poisoned him and...~

~Mister Chekov, please, calm down.~

Chekov stopped. He felt utterly, inhumanly calm, but presumably that was only the influence of Spock's metabolism.

~I realize you probably don't believe me...~

~Since I do not normally find myself sharing my consciousness with uninvited guests, I have little choice but to believe you, at least in respect of that part of your story.~

~Oh, yes. Of course.~

~However...~ Spock paused, and Chekov had the odd sensation that the Vulcan was trying to move his body, with as little success as the ensign had enjoyed earlier. ~...however, I am currently meditating, and the effect of this appears to be that my body will only respond to external stimuli. Fascinating.~

It was more frustrating than fascinating, Chekov thought.

~How long until you stop meditating?~

~I have requested an alarm call at oh five hundred.~

~But it's only about oh one hundred now!~

~Indeed,~ Spock agreed. ~I think you must find someone else to help you.~

~That's exactly the problem,~ Chekov thought. ~I don't know who is awake. All the shifts are messed up. And I'm not sure I can keep moving around. I got myself out of Hooli without really thinking how I was doing it, because he was dying, and I panicked. But I don't know how to move on from here. If I can move: what if I get stuck in someone who's asleep?~

~Yes.~ Spock considered the problem. The considering was a furious hum of half sensed thoughts. Chekov observed it in silence. ~Yes. I too have been absent from the ship and am unsure of current rotas. I believe the captain was not intending to retire immediately...~

~When I moved into Hooli, he wasn't there. I mean... I don't know what happened to him, to his consciousness, but...~ ~That was going to be my next question, Ensign. While you and I seem able to co-exist inside my mind, we have no guarantee that the same will be true with a human host. It is a small risk, perhaps, but...~

~So what do we do?~

~The recovery of the data wafer is sufficiently important to justify taking moderate risks, Ensign, but I am loathe to imperil the captain, who may well be the best person to organize retrieval of both the wafer and your body. Not more than an hour ago, Captain Kirk was in the company of Lieutenant Ryder. They had just completed a complex strategic analysis, and both will probably still be relaxing or dining. I suggest you attempt to relocate yourself in Lieutenant Ryder's mind, and then contact the captain. Following that, comm me. If you wake me, I will...~

~But you said external stimuli...~

~I anticipate that you will be able to wake me by simply comming me here in my cabin,~ Spock replied patiently, ~but I cannot be sure. These are unfamiliar circumstances. Therefore, you should first contact the captain yourself. Understood?~

Chekov felt again the ghostly absence of physical symptoms to accompany his mental anxiety. ~Yes, sir.~

~Good. Now, concentrate on Lieutenant Ryder.~

Chekov was somehow aware of Spock gathering up his consciousness and drawing himself back, ready to fling his visitor out into the void. He overcame the urge to ram his mental fingers into the crevices of Spock's mind and cling on tight. He rather liked Chrissie Ryder, and he desperately hoped he wasn't about to kill her...

"Chrissie..."

Had he said that, or was it someone else? Never mind. She was awake, moving and with someone. Chekov blinked the visual confusion out of his -- no, her -- eyes, and tried to orientate himself.

Pressure. Maybe it hadn't been double gravity in the Vulcan's cabin but merely the sudden confinement to flesh that felt like eighty kilos of...

"Chrissie..." The weight lifted momentarily and Chekov seized a breath on Chrissie's behalf before her mouth was abruptly sealed.

What-the-fuck-what-the-fuck-what-the... Double gravity was an understatement. The whole shape of reality was funneling down into a narrow focus of feeling positioned between Chekov and the body on top of him, just above the point where his...

...where the most sensitive nerves in Chrissie Ryder's body were being exquisitely manipulated to climax. Before Chekov could react to this sudden unwelcome understanding, the touch paper was lit and lightning streaked up his borrowed spine. Time stopped. The insides of Chrissie's eyelids flamed and her whole body was contracting luxuriantly around a unknown erection that seemed -- god knew how -- to be rather larger than Chrissie herself right now. And still, aftershocks of decreasing power echoed as her lover gave himself over to the uncoordinated thrusts of his own climax.

Shocked rigid, ignoring as much as he possibly could ignore, Chekov pulled his mouth away and breathed careful, shallow breaths. He started forming strategies. Whoever this was, he'd be -- he ought to be -- sleepy now. All Chekov had to do was... was calmly disengage, make his excuses... grab his -- Chrissie's -- clothes and run for it. To the nearest comm unit and then his cabin. The only problem was that someone had stolen his legs and replaced them with bolsters full of lead shot. Above him, an adam's apple, tangy with sweat that stung the hard-used skin, brushed against his lips.

"Chrissie? I'm sorry, I can't stay..."

"Okay, go," Chekov wanted to say, but his lips and tongue felt as languid as the rest of him. Chrissie's lover rolled off him -- even the novel female perspective on post-coital disengagement sent ripples of new pleasure racing across the connections of his current body. Chekov realized that the words had emerged as inarticulate, purring ecstasy.

Lips brushed his forehead. "Sounds like you enjoyed that. So did I."

He opened his eyes and looked up into the wide-awake gaze of Jim Kirk. The captain's face, damp and glowing, looked ten years younger than it usually did, with a cowlick plastered to his brow and frowning just slightly. "Chriss?"

"I..." Chekov croaked. "I'm okay."

Kirk rolled clear, but kept eye contact. "Are you?"

"Yes." Chekov sat, stood, staggered to the head -- fortunately Lieutenant Ryder's cabin was laid out exactly like his own -- and tripped over his own feet, smashing his face into the door frame on his way to the floor.

"What's wrong?" Kirk's voice betrayed concern so intense and personal that Chekov automatically discounted it as just for show. "Chriss?"

"Go..." Chekov sorted his tongue out from his teeth. "Go wake Mister Spock."

"What?!"

"Wake... Mister... Spock. Now!"

The walls of the cabin suddenly surged inward and the light level dipped. He felt Kirk's breath on his -- her -- face. He wondered, fascinated, if the captain was going to kiss him again.

"Chriss? What's this about? What's happening?"

"Engineer Hooli," Chekov said faintly to Kirk's mouth. Then he remembered the numbers. They might be important. "Four nine seven zero zero six one three nine four." And with that he passed out.

***

Woken abruptly, Nyota Uhura listened incredulously to the extremely brusque message from her captain. Then she stood, ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it back enough to secure it with a double turn of a sweatband from the tray on her dressing table, and pulled a robe on over her nightdress. Chrissie Ryder's cabin was just three doors down the corridor, and Chrissie Ryder was a good friend, although not so good that she'd let slip any hint of a liaison with the captain, but why else would Jim Kirk be summoning her to Chrissie's cabin?

Brusque to the point of incomprehensibility, Uhura thought disapprovingly. But perhaps she'd not woken up quickly enough to register all of it.

Outside the door, Uhura hesitated and then input the override code. The lighting was low, 'seduction' setting. The cabin was a little untidy. Chrissie had left her uniform hanging over the end of her desk, and her bed was decidedly unmade.

The scent of sex hung in the air and someone was heaving their guts up in the bathroom. Uhura reached the bathroom door and looked in. Chriss was pushing her hair away from her face and wiping her mouth with her hand. She was naked, wet and shivering.

"Chriss?"

The woman didn't respond. She pushed at her hair again, as if the damp tendrils around her face were tormenting her. Uhura pulled a towel off a shelf and dropped it round the lieutenant's shoulders. "Chriss? It's me, Nyota. Here, come sit down." She supported her friend to standing and led her out to the bed, but Chriss pulled away and sat heavily on the floor. She clutched at the towel as she buried her face in her hands.

"I'll get you a glass of water."

There was blood on the bathroom floor, and when Chriss raised her face to gulp down the water, one side of it was a massive, ripening bruise.

"More?" Uhura asked, taking the empty glass before it could fall.

Chriss shook her head. "No."

"Do you want to..."

"No. I don't want to do anything."

Uhura sat back on her heels and watched as Chriss tensed up and folded her arms more tightly across her belly, face down on her knees now. She groaned almost silently.

Twisting to look back at the blood, Uhura reached out with her fingers and touched her friend's arm just firmly enough to be noticed. "Chrissie, have you... have you miscarried?"

"What?" At that Chriss looked up, and Uhura had the odd sensation that she didn't know the eyes in the familiar face.

"Are you pregnant? Do you want me to call Doctor McCoy, or Christine?"

"Pregnant?" Chriss shook her head. "No. I mean... I don't know. How would I know?" She closed her eyes and drew in a sharp breath. "No. Maybe. It hurts. So much."

"What happened?"

Chriss blinked at her. "The data wafer you gave me: the Orions stole it."

"I didn't... I gave that to Chekov. Orions? They were here on the ship? But why did the captain call me, and not security, or at least a medical team?"

"No..."

"What did they do to you?" Uhura reached out another hand, wary of injuries she hadn't seen.

"No. Not here." Chriss shook her head. "They weren't here."

"Then... who did this?" Uhura winced in sympathy as another wave of pain seized the injured woman. "I'm going to call the doctor. You're badly hurt."

"No. I'm not. I just... I tripped and banged my head."

Uhura narrowed her eyes at what sounded like a transparent lie, but she humored her friend. "Okay. We need to ask Doctor McCoy to look at it. And you're bleeding. Did he... did someone..."

"Just go away!" Chriss snapped. "What are you doing in here? Go away!" She started to sob.

Uhura bit her lip. "The captain... Jim... asked me to come and help you. I'll call sickbay, and when someone comes, I'll go, okay?"

"Yes," Chris muttered tightly. She was rocking a little, as if trying to master intense pain without giving in to it. Then she stilled again.

Uhura moved swiftly to the intercom and requested urgent medical help. To her surprise, McCoy came back to her. "Chriss Ryder? Jim said... he said he'd asked you to take care of her."

Uhura scowled. "I can't. She needs a doctor."

"Oh." McCoy was plainly surprised. "He said... I'm on my way."

Uhura stared confusedly at the silent comm unit and tried to remember exactly what the captain had said to her. This really wasn't making sense. If Kirk had wanted this incident, whatever it was, kept out of the medical records, he should have made that clear, and given a bloody good reason. She turned back to her friend. "Chriss..."

"Is she dying?" She moved closer to catch the whisper. "Who? Is who dying?"

"Lieutenant Ryder. I feel like she's dying."

"Chriss..." A light seemed to go on. "You're not Chriss. Is that right?"

Whoever it was shook her head and sobbed, and the jumbled fragments of Kirk's message began to make sense.

"Then who are you?"

No answer. Then 'Chriss' shrugged and looked up at her. "You gave me the chip..."

"Chekov?"

The blonde head nodded. "There's so much blood," he whispered. "I don't know what I did wrong. I think I've killed her."

Uhura sat down next to him and put her arm round Chrissie's shoulders. "Doctor McCoy will be here any moment. Tell me what happened. I gave you the data wafer, and you went down to the transporter room. Then what?"

After a moment, Chekov sighed and talked. "Crewman Hooli is working for the Orions. He did something to the transporters. He sent the wafer, and my body, but he left me behind."

"And you were trying to tell the captain?" Uhura guessed. Chekov nodded and sniffed. "But Chriss was with him? Chekov? Was Chriss with him?"

The ensign/lieutenant seemed to have faded out for a moment. Uhura could feel every muscle in the lieutenant's body knotting up enough to cramp.

"Chekov, honey. Let's get you up on the bed. I think if you relax..."

"No!" Chekov insisted. "Leave me alone."

Uhura sighed. "Listen, Pavel, I think when the doctor gets here, he's going to tell you to stop feeling sorry for yourself, take a painkiller and get back to work."

"I'm dying!"

"You feel like you're dying. But you're not."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've lived four cabins down from Chriss long enough to know that every month, she gets killer cramps and a foul temper. She's menstruating."

"But it hurts!" Chekov insisted, folding almost double over his clenched fists. "It really hurts."

Only the catch of tears in his voice stopped Uhura smiling to herself. "I know it does, hon. But believe me, it's normal. It's nothing to worry about."

Worried or not, she was relieved when the door opened to admit Doctor McCoy.

"What's the problem?" he asked both of them.

Chekov remained stubbornly silent, apart from a smothered intake of breath at a stab of pain, so Uhura said tentatively, "I think it's just cramps, Doctor."

"Menstrual cramps?" McCoy sounded extremely skeptical. "I don't think a case of menstrual cramps would have a trained Starfleet officer sobbing on the floor of her cabin." He crouched over his patient and consulted his tricorder.

"He's not used to it," Uhura pointed out.

McCoy glanced at her impatiently. "No, well, you're right about her cycle at any rate, and there are no significant injuries." He looked at his patient, and then at Uhura.

She waited for him to do something, then as it became apparent that he wasn't going to, she said, "I know you don't like handing out painkillers..."

"What I don't like doing isn't the point. Lieutenant Ryder has always refused medication for this. And since it's not exactly life threatening..."

"He's in pain!" Uhura insisted indignantly.

McCoy shrugged. "He might be experiencing some unusual discomfort, unusual for him I mean. I'm not sure it justifies over-riding Ryder's clear preferences. I mean, ethically I'd be on arguable ground..."

"Well..."

"And Chrissie would have my ass in a sling. You know that. It's not as if I could pretend I wasn't aware of it. It's plastered all over her medical notes."

"She wouldn't..."

"Inflict her prejudices on someone else? Don't you believe it."

McCoy turned back to Chekov. "But I've got a few 'natural' remedies I can try. Let's get you up on the bed..."

"No!"

"What happened to your face?" McCoy asked after a moment, abandoning the planned relocation.

"I was... not very well coordinated, at first. I tripped."

"I can imagine," McCoy said heartily. "Let me take a look."

Chekov turned Chrissie's face up to the doctor. Her complexion was waxy pale, but her cheekbone, brow and jaw were turning purple.

The feinberger hummed busily. "Okay there. That doesn't look too bad. Now, what you need to do is relax..." McCoy reached out and tipped Chekov's chin up. "And try to put a brave face on this. Let's..."

Chekov knocked McCoy's' hand away. "Stop... stop patronizing me. Leave me alone."

"All right." McCoy made a show of stepping back. "Get yourself up on the bed, if you want to be self sufficient. I need to..."

"No! Look, just... you said there was nothing wrong with me, so why don't you just leave me the fuck alone and..."

"Ensign!"

"There's no need to fucking yell at me!" Chekov burst into tears. "And I'm... I'm bleeding all over the place and I feel as if my gut is tied in knots and..."

"Turn the heat up," Uhura said sharply. McCoy frowned at her. She glared at him, so he followed her suggestion. Meanwhile, she knelt down on the floor in front of Chekov. "Pavel Andreievich, listen to me. You'll feel better if you take a shower, get some clothes on, and let us take care of you. You're cold, tired and frightened, right? You'll feel much better if I straighten the bed out and you lie down..."

"No." Chekov sniffed. Uhura reached over to the dressing table and found a handkerchief. "Here."

He accepted it. Taking that as a good sign, she went and turned the sonic shower on, and found a robe. There were footprints tracking blood in and out of the bathroom now. Uhura ignored them. She gestured at the bed. "Can you make that, doctor?"

The robe round his shoulders, Chekov let the towel fall and leaned, unsteadily but resignedly, against Uhura. She walked him to the bathroom and let him hand her the robe then came back out, leaving the door open.

McCoy had pulled the sheets. "I think Ryder should be taking iron supplements."

"She does get it pretty badly every month. And... I think I remember her saying once that sex helped."

"It's supposed to," McCoy agreed half-heartedly. "But I have half a dozen other treatments that are far more reliable. Her flat earth attitude to this drives me nuts."

"I think she had some muscle relaxants on prescription once that affected her vision..."

"Cymborol? She tried that? That only happens to one woman in sixty thousand. And they've solved it by reformulating it."

"I'll tell her that. If we ever get her back," Uhura added.

McCoy glanced across at the bathroom, where the shower was now humming loudly. "So what exactly happened here?" he asked, keeping his voice low. "Did Chekov tell you?"

"Not really. The captain told me to come and take care of Chrissie, and when I arrived, she was throwing up. Or he was throwing up. I presume Chekov just found himself in Chrissie's head and the disorientation is making him nauseous. And of course he probably has a slamming headache and feels like someone is periodically kicking him in the stomach."

"Even so... You're sure this is Chekov?" McCoy was almost whispering.

"Well... he says he is. And the captain..."

"Yeah, Jim thinks this is Chekov. It's just... Chekov's never refused to obey a direct order, or yelled at me, and he won't let me examine him thoroughly. I wonder if he's hiding something."

Uhura preferred the more obvious explanation. "Chekov isn't used to being under attack from his own hormones."

McCoy snapped out a fresh sheet with dismissive vigor. "Well, I've treated him for worse than that before now."

"Paranoia, panic attacks, murderous irritability..."

"Uhura..."

"I'm not talking about the biochemistry. I'm talking about how it feels, and with respect, you don't have the experience I do. He's had his own body stolen, and he's trying to operate in one that probably feels right now as if it's been wired up to his brain back to front."

McCoy finished tucking in the sheet corners. "Okay. I'll make allowances. But I think I should examine him. A tricorder only tells me so much. Do you have any ideas for sweet talking him into that? Should I get it in writing from an admiral, put my request on a card in a bunch of flowers, or just come back in a week when normal functioning is restored?"

Uhura bit her tongue and glanced at the bed. "Do you think... what if Chrissie and the captain were..."

"They were. In bed together, if that's what you're getting at. That's purely FYI."

"Yes, but... when did Chekov arrive? After? Or during?"

"How the hell should I... oh. You think that's why Chekov isn't too keen to get back onto that bed?" He thought some more. "Or have anyone touch him?"

"Don't you think it might explain things?"

McCoy considered. "No one can say this job is boring. Maybe you should persuade him to get dressed and take him somewhere else, his own cabin. Calm him down and I'll pay him a visit if he gets any more distressed. And you'll, uh... sort him out?"

Uhura allowed herself to sigh. "Yes, Doctor. I'll 'sort him out'."

"Good. Let me know if his condition deteriorates, anything that isn't normal. I'll be autopsying Crewman Hooli."

When McCoy had gone, Uhura pulled a sweater and jog pants out of a closet, found some shoes, and raided the dressing table for a hairbrush. She heard the shower turn off, but didn't rush over to the bathroom. After a couple of minutes, Chekov emerged. The sonic shower had dried his skin and hair, and the ensign had obviously made use of a moment alone to compose himself somewhat. He was wrapped shoulders to knees in a large bath towel.

"I... uh, helped myself to a..."

"Tampon?"

"Mm."

Uhura awarded him a gold star for initiative. "I'm sure Chrissie won't mind. Why don't you get dressed and we'll go back to your cabin. I'll make you some peppermint tea."

"Peppermint tea? Why?"

"Chris Chapel swears by it. We'll stick you in a warm bunk, and you can curl up round a thermal pack and I'll rub your calves."

"Normally I'd be delighted, but I have my period," Chekov said with more sarcasm than humor. He took the clothes from Uhura.

"Do you want me to leave while you get dressed?"

"I think I should leave. Underwear?"

Uhura turned to the dressing table and opened a couple of drawers. "Sport bra, briefs. There you go." Chekov surprised Uhura by managing to put on and fasten the bra like an old hand. "You look like you've done that before..."

He wriggled and shrugged his shoulders a few times before looking down at his cleavage. Uhura was reminded of Sulu making the acquaintance of a novel plant specimen.

"Analyze the task, identify the problem and apply logic." He pulled on the pants and sweater, then picked up a hairbrush and dragged it through Chrissie's hair.

"Let me." Uhura held out her hand for the brush. Chekov scowled and gave it to her. "There. Are you feeling a bit better now? You look much better."

"I feel like I have the situation under control, for the moment."

"Ready to go back to your own cabin?"

"Yes."

"Hold on while I get dressed. I'll be back in two minutes."

***

They walked briskly along corridors that seemed unnaturally busy for the time of night. Then Uhura realized that the ship was no longer idling on standby. Everyone else would have been roused to track the whereabouts of the tape, and of Chekov's body, but that probably wasn't the first priority. The security of the Federation would be taking the front seat.

Few people paid them any attention, until: "Chriss..."

Chekov continued straight on, earning a surprised pout from Yeoman Digwell.

"Okay, be like that," the yeoman snapped.

"She's not feeling very well," Uhura called back over her shoulder.

"Oh. Sorry. Hey, Chrissie, did you try those kelp tablets I suggested?"

They turned a corner and collided with Sulu, who caught Chrissie's arm to steady her, only to have it snatched away. "Sorry."

"I wish everyone would stop fucking apologizing," Chekov muttered. They were outside his cabin now. They stood and waited for Sulu to leave.

"Does either of you know what's happening?" he asked.

"Aren't you on your way to bridge?" Uhura said, trying to make the query sound suitably casual.

He shrugged. "I don't think we're actually going anywhere. I'm on standby. I was going to get a coffee. Do you two..."

"Why don't you just fuck off?" Chekov said.

"Huh?" Sulu blinked at him. "What did I..."

"It's always the same with you, pushing in where you're not welcome, minding everybody's business but your own. 'What's happening' just happens to be nothing to do with you, okay?" Chrissie's shoulders were about level with where Chekov's would have been. He used one of them to push Sulu out of the way and hit the lock pad on his cabin. Uhura dived in after him before the door could shut with her on the wrong side.

"What the hell was that about?" she demanded.

Chekov vanished into his own miniature bathroom. When he emerged, wearing his own bathrobe, Uhura was waiting with her hands on her hips. "Chekov? What's the matter? Sulu only asked if you wanted a coffee. He and Chrissie are good friends..."

"Oh, yes," Chekov snapped. He started fussing around, tidying things that were already perfectly tidy.

"Look, I fully appreciate that this must be difficult for you, but you can't start taking it out on innocent bystanders."

"I didn't want to talk to him, that's all. I just wanted to get into my cabin and anyone could see he was going to stand there all night." A stack of data cassettes toppled from where Chekov had just shoved them and hit the deck. "Shit." He kicked them.

"Chekov, sit down."

"I don't..."

"Sit. Down." She waited, and after a moment, he complied. "Thanks. Now, do you want some tea?"

"Not very much, but I suppose you're going to make me some."

"Do you have any vodka in here?"

"Of course not."

She rolled her eyes at him.

"In the bottom drawer."

It was only a small bottle, and nearly empty. Uhura tipped it all into a glass and held it out to him. "Take it slowly. I'm trying to calm you down, not get you smashed out of your head."

"Lieutenant Ryder's head."

"Well. Whatever."

"I'm sorry."

"I know, sugar. But..."

"He's such an idiot. He's slept with Chrissie Ryder too, hasn't he?"

Uhura froze. "Yes. Yes, I'd forgotten. Sorry. It was a long time ago, before you came aboard. They really are just friends now. Until five minutes ago."

Chekov was chewing at the rim of the glass.

"How did you know?" Uhura asked.

"I just knew."

"Sulu told you?"

"No. I just know. This body knows. It... reacts. Okay?"

She stared at him blankly, then shook herself. She realized she knew what he meant, but he made it sound sinister.

Chekov tucked his legs up under himself in a way that seemed more like Ryder than Chekov. Then he frowned. Then he groaned and wrapped his spare arm across his belly.

"Hurting again?"

"Mm."

"You could take some non-prescription pain-killers. I'm sure Chrissie wouldn't mind."

"I don't think I should." He looked down at the glass and held it out to Uhura. "I don't think I should drink this either."

"Why not? Chrissie drinks like a fish."

"It's not easy, moving from one body to another. If they find mine..."

"Oh. Yes. Good thinking." Uhura accepted the glass, held it for a moment, then tossed back the contents. She put it down. "When they find yours."

"Well, it will most certainly make a difference if we use the correct conjunctions." Chekov lay down on his face and, as far as Uhura could make out, started biting his pillow.

She sat down next to him and reached out to his shoulders, stopping with her hands a centimeter above his skin. "A massage would help. D'you want one?"

"I thought you were going to make me some tea?"

"If you want it..."

"You might as well do something useful."

"I'm really glad you're not female, Pavel. Really glad. I'm not sure we could all stand this happening every month."

"Oh, you women can take it and I can't?"

"I guess it's a shock to the system." She waited to see if he'd accept this peace offering. He didn't. "You aren't... you aren't being very gracious about it."

"That is easy for you to say. I am bleeding like in a kosher slaughterhouse. I..." He sat up suddenly. "Lieutenant, what does it feel like, making love as a woman?"

"What? Chekov... It feels like it feels. What do you expect me to say?"

Chekov pulled his knees in tight to his chest and rested his chin on them. "I think they were doing something... unnatural."

"Who? Oh, Chrissie and... and the captain."

Chekov grunted.

"You know, just like you told Sulu, it's none of your business. You should just forget about it."

"Right."

"Pavel... Honey. Let me give you a backrub. And your calves. Having your calves rubbed really helps. Honestly. You'll fall asleep and you'll feel a million times better in the morning."

"You can't."

"Why can't I?"

"Well..." Chekov looked up at her from under Chrissie's blonde bangs. "You wouldn't... you wouldn't offer if I really was Lieutenant Ryder, would you?"

"What do you mean? Of course I would. That's how I know it'll work for you, because I've done it for her." Uhura shook her head. "'Massage' does not equal 'sex', Chekov. What I'm planning to do for you doesn't even count as intimate. Like I said, I'm offering you a backrub and I'll work the tension out of your calf muscles. For some reason, that reduces the abdominal cramps. Okay?"

He considered, until another wave of pain hit him. "Okay."

"Lie down again."

***

It took a lot longer than usual, but eventually Chekov slept. Uhura washed her hands and face and picked Chrissie's discarded clothes up from the bathroom floor.

"Lieutenant..."

She clamped her hand to her mouth to smother a startled yelp. "Captain..."

Kirk looked tired. He glanced across at Chekov. "How's he taking it?"

Uhura considered. "Unevenly."

The captain smiled. "That's Chrissie, not Chekov. This time of the month, she's on a roller coaster."

That won a smile from Uhura. "Captain... You never fail to surprise me. Doctor McCoy thinks Chekov is being a complete wuss."

Kirk shook his head knowingly. "I disagree. Do you think I should wake him to tell him we have some good news?"

"Do we?"

"We tracked them down. The Orions beamed the data cassette and Chekov's body about ten times further than standard transporter range to a scout ship that was standing ready. Chekov got hold of the coordinates somehow. Hooli must have reconfigured the transporter to dump Chekov's mental patterns and use the additional capacity to increase the range."

"Is he... his body, I mean, is it still alive?"

"Unconscious, as you might expect, but undamaged. I don't know what they were planning, but I guess they were just waiting for him to come round. They probably had no idea they'd left his mind behind. Anyhow, the Gettysburg has picked it up, and it'll be here in four hours."

"He might just sleep for four hours..."

The captain's eyes narrowed. "He's really been giving you a hard time, hasn't he?"

Uhura shifted uncomfortably. Chrissie was difficult at times like this. Chekov was worse. What else was she supposed to do beyond offering tea and sympathy?

Kirk sat down on the edge of Chekov's bunk. "Ensign? Pavel?"

Chekov made some vague 'go away' noises and snuggled down under the cover.

"Uh, Captain..."

He looked up at her. "Yes?"

"Don't you think he might... prefer not to see you right now? Given what you and Lieutenant Ryder were doing when he..."

Kirk grinned. "McCoy did warn me to take care he didn't scratch my eyes out."

"There's nothing happening between Chekov and Ryder," Uhura hastened to correct him.

"Uh, that wasn't what Doctor McCoy meant." He shrugged easily and turned back to his ensign, leaving Uhura staring at him with her mouth wide open. "Come on now, Chekov. Time to wake up."

"I don't want to. It hurts," Chekov growled.

"We can do something about that."

The ensign rolled over, jumped like a scalded cat at the sight of Kirk, and retreated to the far edge of his bunk, where the wall put a halt to his flight. "Captain."

"That's right," Kirk assured him a shade too cheerfully. "You're the only one in the wrong body at the moment. But the good news is that the Gettysburg has recovered the right one and will have it delivered to you in good condition in around four hours."

"What about..." Chekov tapped himself on the chest. "...Lieutenant Ryder?"

"From what happened when you dropped in to visit Spock, he thinks Ryder's consciousness is holed up in her anterior cerebellum, and she should be unharmed so long as we don't delay the switch back much beyond six hours. But even if she isn't, Pavel, you were obeying Spock's orders, and his orders were correct. Getting that wafer back was the priority."

Chekov unthinkingly tugged his robe a little more firmly closed and checked the knot in his belt. A familiar grimace of pain creased his face.

"Chekov, Chrissie won't take medication for this because she had a slight reaction to some painkillers one month when she was just a teenager. She was supposed to be babysitting her kid brother but she fell asleep and he scalded himself in the kitchen. It's a combination of guilt trip and fear of something similar happening again. I'm sure she wouldn't want you to go without, but since she's also sensitive to mild muscle relaxants, it doesn't seem sensible to risk knocking you out when we're going to need you fully alert in four hours."

"Okay," Chekov said, nodding seriously. "I can survive another four hours of this. If I have to."

"Good..."

"If everyone would only leave me the fuck alone, and stop telling me I am making a stupid fuss about nothing and trying out their fucking folk remedies on me..."

"Chekov, we're only..." Kirk and Uhura stopped simultaneously and Uhura gestured for the captain to continue.

"Chekov, lie down, on your face."

"Why? What are you going to do?" Chekov's pallor became positively chalky.

Uhura laid a warning hand on her captain's arm. "Sir..."

"I'm going to give the backs of your legs a quick massage. I know Uhura could do this for you... you already did? If Chekov's still hurting, you didn't do it right." Kirk smiled apologetically at his communications officer. "I think we'll all be happier after I do this, and you stop cussing and snarling at everyone. Okay, Chekov?"

The ensign's eyes clouded momentarily. The pain was obviously enough to make up his mind. He rolled onto his stomach with his arms crossed under his face.

Kirk laid a hand lightly on the small of his back. "Good. Now, relax."

Within five minutes, Chekov was practically purring. Kirk sat back and waited a moment to see if the ensign was really asleep.

"Chrissie's right," Uhura whispered. "You're the expert. He was still one big knot when I did it."

"Stay with him, okay, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, and if he does wake up and gives you any more shit, give him these." He held out a small, red-wrapped box. She watched him go, then looked down at it. Belgian chocolates. Truffles. Her mouth started to water. 'For medicinal purposes only,' she told herself firmly.

***

The bleep of the comm unit roused her from the deepest sleep attainable while sitting at a Starfleet desk with only your arms for a pillow.

"..." She paused to work some saliva back into her mouth. "Uhura here."

"Can you bring him down to sickbay in ten minutes? We'll be ready for him to swap back."

"Yes, sir." She turned to see if Chekov needed rousing.

He focused on her with difficulty. "I was dreaming that I was only dreaming."

"In fifteen minutes, it'll all be over. What do you want to wear on the way down? Nothing too bizarre: remember Chrissie will have to walk back in it. I could fetch a uniform..."

"Ten centimeter stilettoes, black silk basque..."

"Well, someone's in a better mood now!"

"I do feel better." Chekov shook his head wonderingly. "It all feels like something I can deal with: maybe because I know it's only for another fifteen minutes. I'll wear what I have already. Excuse me." He vanished into the bathroom.

Uhura pulled the cover on his bed straight, put the empty vodka glass in the recycler, then fished something out of her pocket and went to the bathroom door. "You might want another one of these."

"Oh. Right. I'd forgotten."

She leaned against the bulkhead and smiled to herself. Typical Chrissie. One moment, everything was the end of the world, the next... instant sunshine. Of course, Uhura hadn't realized that the captain was the usual immediate cause of the improvement. Maybe he'd consider doing the same for all his... ah, now that was probably why he'd felt it necessary to stand on rank just before he left. Still, it begged the question of why Chrissie was a special case. Probably, she decided, they'd just discovered by accident during a momentary indiscretion, and found the arrangement suited them both.

"I'm ready."

She peeped around the corner at Chekov. He was looking at Chrissie's reflection in the mirror. And his expression... Anyone who looked at him... her... would know instantly.

"Chekov..."

"Yes?"

"Before we go anywhere..."

"Yes?"

"You have to wipe that I-fucked-the-captain grin off your face."

THE END