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Pavel Chekov leaned back wearily in the comfortable lounger at his workstation in Security. It had been a long, but very good day, his first day back on duty since being laid out on the deck of the Enterprise, a gaping belly wound from the Lyndraxian werewolf, Luka. For the last week, he had lain on his back in Sickbay, healing and recuperating under the watchful eye of Doctor Leonard H. McCoy. McCoy ruled his domain with the iron hand of a tyrant, and Chekov had been more than happy to escape the doctor’s clutches. The CMO had urged him to return to light duty, but he had insisted on plunging back in full tilt. It was just as well; he was sure he would have gone stir-crazy had he remained in Sickbay a moment longer.

He had too much time to think there.

Chekov sighed. Twenty-one dead, slain in the most gruesome way imaginable. Thirteen of his own people and eight of the crew they’d been sworn to protect. His grief had been crushing, suffocating. Slowly, however, he came to realized that, as cold and callous as it might seem, he had to move on from the tragedy. He would not—could not forget those who died, but he had to control and submerge his grief, or it would impair his ability to function as the Enterprise’s chief security officer. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He had too much to do. They were going to pick up twenty new security personnel from Starbase 31. Some of them were grizzled veterans, but a lot of them were as green as a fresh spring grass. It would be his job to mold them into a unit, making sure not only that their skills and abilities were in top form, but that they also jelled with each other and with the existing squad into a crack team that could be counted on to rely on themselves and each other. That was the hard part. Anyone could teach marksmanship and hand-to-hand skills. Teamwork was another matter altogether. That was an intangible, and it was intuitive. Sometimes it clicked immediately, and sometimes it took a while to develop.

Only time would tell.

Chekov absently rubbed his palm over his stomach. He rolled up the snug-fitting fabric of his short-sleeved duty tunic and regarded the patch of pink, peeling skin that stared back at him.

The plastiskin was healing and assimilating quite nicely. In a few days, it would be impossible to tell he had nearly been disemboweled by the wolfman from Lyndrax.

Chekov stretched and yawned, ruefully conceding that Doctor McCoy may have had a point in recommending light duty. He was exhausted. He had gotten a little soft lying around in Sickbay. A few days of regular shifts would get him back into top shape, but he would pay for his inactivity in the meantime.

He was trying to decide what he wanted to do most—shower, sleep or eat—when a bosun’s whistle shrilled, temporarily halting his inner debate.

"Security. Chekov here," he said.

The fine-boned face of Lieutenant Commander Penda Nyota Uhura shimmered into focus. Her expression managed to be quizzical, bemused and desperately curious all at the same time. "Pavel, I have an incoming encrypted CommPic for you from the U.S.S. Intrepid," Uhura began. "At least, I think it’s for you. It’s addressed to ‘Czar Nicholas’ from... ‘Angel Face.’"

Uhura arched her eyebrows, her smile becoming positively wicked. "Angel Face? Tell me, my dear Pavel, who, pray tell, is ‘Angel Face’?"

Chekov’s face turned beet red, and he flashed a sheepish grin. "I promise...sometime vwhen vwe’re both wvery, wvery drunk, I’ll tell you all about it."

Uhura’s eyebrows climbed even higher. "That good, huh? Okay, I can hardly wait. It’s scrambled. You want to decode it at your terminal?"

You bet I do! Chekov thought. No telling vwhat that little wvixen is up to! "Thank you, yes," was all he said.

Uhura signed off, her image replaced by a screenful of gradually clearing carrier static. Chekov’s grin widened. Lieutenant Angela ‘Angel Face’ Moretti, Security Chief of the U.S.S. Intrepid. As twenty-one year old ensigns aboard the Enterprise eight years ago, Chekov and Moretti had kept their relationship hidden, even though it had been white-hot. "Angel Face." No woman had ever been more aptly named. That beautiful, flawless face, so angelic. So incongruous on a woman who had the morals of a wanton hedonist!

The screen flickered, and Chekov entered his own decryption protocol. The image cleared, and there she was. "Hello, Czar," she purred. "Good to see you again."

Chekov swallowed hard. Impossible as it might seem, she was even more beautiful than before. The long, cascading fall of golden hair was gone, but the short, pixie-style cut that framed her incomparable face was very attractive, very feminine. Clear green eyes regarded him candidly. Her pillowy lips curled in an inviting smile, crinkling her upturned nose.

"Angela," he managed. "It’s been a long time."

"Too long," she whispered, turning her mega-volt smile up a notch, causing Chekov’s loins to tingle in remembrance of their torrid relationship. "My gun port is badly in need of an overhaul, Czar. I couldn’t believe my luck when I heard the Enterprise was heading into Starbase 31. So’s the Intrepid. We'll get there three hours ahead of you. Be there at least three weeks, going in for the four R’s: rest, recreation, repairs and replacements."

Her green eyes suddenly misted with unshed tears. "We jot jumped by a cloaked k’t’inga while we were in orbit over Gamma Crucis Four. Got shot up pretty badly. Fourteen dead, twenty-seven injured. I...I lost six people on the ground in hand-to-hand with two stray Kh’myr Klingon warriors. Two! Only two of those lousy knot-headed bastards!" She shuddered, closing her eyes in anguish. "They moved like lightning. Fell on us with those damned d’k’tagh battle daggers, slashing and cutting. It was all screaming and confusion. We didn’t dare shoot at first for fear of hitting a teammate. Then there were only two of us left." She drew her lips back into a feral, bitter snarl. "The knot-heads had run out of cover, and we blew ‘em into atoms!"

"I’m sorry," Chekov murmured. "I lost thirteen people of my own last vweek. I know how you feel."

She wiped her eyes, and the smile was back. "Thanks," she said. "I feel for you, too. I’ll be better in a couple of days. It’s just kind of fresh right now. I can’t let down in front of my people. It helps to talk. You know how it is!"

"Yes, yes, I do."

Her smile came back full force, and Chekov tingled again.

"By the way, congratulations—Security Chief of the Big E. You finally got a real job!"

"T’ank you," Chekov returned. "It’s a living."

"Well, we can compare notes while we’re on shore-leave," she said. "How long will you be at Starbase 31?"

"It depends," Chekov answered. "It’ll be at least two vweeks. Vwe should have plenty of time notes."

"R-i-i-ight," Moretti chided, her smile becoming positively lascivious. "By the way, I thought you might like to se some old friends of yours. Get you primed and in the mood."

The holocam pulled back from the tight close-up of her face. Chekov gasped aloud, then groaned deep in his throat. The tingling in his loins became a raging erection.

Lieutenant Angela Moretti was topless!

Bozhe moi, those breasts! Massive, but perfectly formed, they jutted proud and taut from her chest. The large nipples and aureoles had always reminded Chekov of big, pink pancakes with cherries right in the center!

She smiled suggestively. "My gun port is open, Czar Nicholas," she gasped.

Chekov found it increasingly difficult to breath. "Russian Rule of Engagement Number Twenty-five," he managed, his voice a rasp. "‘If the enemy’s gun ports are open, yours better be blazing!’"

"Is your gun port blazing yet, Czar?" Moretti’s voice was a caress.

"Russian Rule of...Engagement T-t-two," he stammered. "‘Incoming fire has the r-right of vway.’"

"My gun port is well-primed for some incoming fire," she whispered. Her smile turned into a wicked grin, and she vigorously shook her breasts, setting the huge globes of flesh bouncing and bobbling dangerously. "I’ll call you again when you dock," Moretti said. "I love you, Pavel."

"I love you, too, Angel Face," he returned as the screen faded. He exhaled slowly. "Bozhe moi!" he gasped again. "Time for a ice cold shower," he said aloud. He realized with amusement that his priorities had been decided for him. A icy shower, a quick bite to eat, and then as much sleep as he could get.

He would need it!

Smiling broadly, Chekov leaned back in his chair, remembering his first encountered with the beautiful and enchanting Angela Moretti. It was the first and only time he’d ever seen a beautiful woman do a strip tease in a starship rec room!

He chuckled.

It had been the first time for a lot of things...


Everyone on the wvessel has gone crazy, Ensign Pavel Chekov decided, even though he kept his thoughts to himself. Either that, or this was a very elaborate, very bizarre hazing exercise designed to drive new crewmembers insane. Or perhaps the explanation was even simpler—everyone was falling down drunk.

Whatever the explanation, it was all very strange.

Chekov ducked to one side as a garishly-costumed clown bustled down the corridor honking a bicycle horn and spraying seltzer bottle, all the while maniacally cackling like a banshee. A little further along, a young woman in a science blue uniform was pouring can after can of paint over herself. Bright colors of every hue of the rainbow streaked down her body. Apparently these people had gotten into the materials replicators to fabricate whatever they needed to fuel their own private brands of madness.

Chekov had been off-duty in his quarters when it had started. He had been reading, just taking it easy when he somehow sensed that something was wrong, very wrong. That feeling had been validated moments later when the intercom had crackled on....

"One more ti-i-i-i-ime!"

"Bozhe moi!" Chekov groaned aloud. "Please, no more!"

"I’ll take you home agai-ai-ai-ain, Kathleeeeeeen...."

"For Zontar’s sake, Kevin!" someone howled in frustration. "Take her home and leave her there!"

The intercom had crackled on, and Kevin Riley announced that he was now the captain of the Enterprise. But that hadn’t been bad enough—then he had started that infernal, endless, off-key singing! That’s when Chekov had left his quarters and stumbled into a scene from a futuristic Alice in Wonderland....or a 23rd century equivalent of 20th century film maker Frederico Fellini’s Roma.

A red-shirted crewman was on his knees in the coridor, sobbing, banging his head against a bulkhead as he covered his ears.

"Make him stop!" he pleased. "I can’t take any more of his damned singing!"

"I’m vwith you, comrade," Chekov muttered.

He came upon a young woman dressed in sackcloth and ashes, clutching a bible in one hand and a shepherd’s crook in the other. Her red hair straggled all over her head, and her blue eyes stared wildly.

"Are you saved, brother?" she quavered, advancing on him.

"I hope so," he answered, avoiding mentioning he was Jewish. He danced out of her way, easily eluding her grasp. "Vwhy don’t you help him?" He pointed toward the weeping redshirt, and the would-be evangelist lost interest in him.

Chekov hurried along, wondering what he would encounter next. He had not yet seen anyone who was acting rationally. A chill ran down his spine. How had he escaped whatever insanity this was? And who was running the ship? Surely Captain Kirk and Mister Spock had not been affected.

Chekov rounded a corner and stopped up short, mouth agape, eyes wide in appreciation and amazement. "Now this kind of insanity, I could get used to!"

A beautiful young woman was bouncing toward him on a pogo stick. That was odd enough, what was even more peculiar was that she was as naked as a jaybird!

Chekov grinned happily as she grew closer. She was gorgeous! Her supple young body glistened with perspiration, and her firm breasts jiggled enticingly. Long, raven hair flew wildly as she whipped her head from side to side, moaning and sobbing. Chekov realized with a start that she was rubbing herself against the pogo stick as she rode it.

"I’m coming!" she shrieked. Her body jerked convulsively and shuddered. Then she went limp, and she tumbled off the pogo stick, falling against the wall, her legs shaking.

Ensign Chekov gawked at her, open-mouthed. He was awestruck by her beauty, her wanton pose enticing. He was caught up in his own lust, but all the craziness of their surroundings served to put a damper on things. Coming down the hall now was a crewman, naked as she was, walking on the ceiling using magnetic boots, reciting Cervantes’ Don Quixote from memory. Chekov stepped toward the young woman, and knelt down beside her.

Finally, she caught her breath. She became aware of his presence, then smiled at him with perfect white teeth. "Oh, hi," she said brightly. "Sorry...didn’t see you there right away. Didn’t realize that riding a pogo stick could make someone so horny!" She sensuously ran her tongue over her lips. "Want some?" She caressed his face lightly with her sweaty fingers.

Chekov was confused. "Some vwhat?" He felt his face tingling slightly, and felt a flush of what he was sure was embarrassment overwhelming him.

"Some sex, of course, silly!"

"I...I beg your p-pardon," Chekov stuttered.

"I’m asking you if you want to fuck me right here and now, big boy."

There was a roaring in his ears. This couldn’t be happening—not to Pavel Andreievich Chekov. He had never had much luck with women. He had always been a little backward, a little shy. He couldn’t understand it. There was nothing wrong with him. He was not bad-looking; actually, he considered himself to be rather rakishly handsome. But he’d never had any luck. His relationship with Irini Galliulin had never progressed beyond the heavy petting stage, and he’d always wondered if his inexperience had driven her away. Since then, he’d never gotten beyond kissing on a date.

Oh, Pavel, you’re so sweet, but you remind me of my little brother.

Can’t we just be friends, Pavel?

Pavel, you’re just so...well, short!

He signed. He had more women friends than he could shake a stick at—or a pogo stick...

However, he thought bitterly, at age twenty-one, I am still a virgin!

And now, sitting right next to him was a beautiful young woman, naked and primed, and ready for a roll in the hay.

"So—do you want to fuck, or not?" she repeated.

Chekov grinned at her. "Yes," he admitted. "I vwould like that wvery, wvery much!"

Even as he reached for the bottom of his tonic, however, a rattling, clattering commotion shattered the mood. A naked blond-haired man bounced his pogo stick to a halt, dismounted and grabbed the girl. She squealed happily and made a pretense of wrestling with him. Chekov couldn’t help but notice that the young man was firmly aroused.

"Gotcha!" he cried. "I finally got the hang of bouncing on that thing. You led me on a merry chase, Angela Martine, but now you’re ‘it!’ And you know what that means!"

"I know, Bobby!" she giggled. "You win—and I’m prepared to pay up!"

Without hesitation, she dropped before the young man...

Chekov deflated like a punctured balloon. Angela Martine, Bobby...of course. His crewmates in Engineering had told him about Phaser Specialist 1-C Angela Martine. She was definitely one of the Enterprise’s class-A babes (although it seemed to Chekov that you could look any direction and see a class-A babe on this ship!). She was also most definitely very unavailable, being betrothed as it were to one Phaser Specialist 1-C Robert Tomlinson.


Of course.

Chekov sighed wistfully. She had, of course, forgotten all about him. It was just as well. She was obviously not herself, having succumbed to whatever this madness that had claimed most of the crew. The two young lovers were going at it fast and furiously.

Chekov could not tear himself away from watching. He watched enviously as Martine and Tomlinson continued their coupling, oblivious to everyone and everything around them. He did not feel like a voyeur. They would not have noticed if a photon grenade had detonated next to them!

Chekov sighed again. That really looks like fun, he thought. I wonder if I’ll ever get to see what it’s like.

Suddenly, Angela Martine threw her head back and screamed as her body shuddered repeatedly. Tomlinson arched his back and groaned loudly as he climaxed with her.

Chekov dejectedly continued on down the corridor. He envied them so much it hurt! He cast a couple of longing glances at them back over his shoulder. Would he ever be that happy...or that lucky?

He came to the doors of Rec Room 5. It sounded as if a major party was in progress. With a shrug, he stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed was popcorn. He was ankle-deep in it; it was blowing from all fifteen of the food vending slots like artificial snow from a blizzard machine at a ski resort.

The second thing he noticed that people were acting strangely, just as they were everywhere else he had been. Two redshirts were putting on a kick-boxing exhibition. A young woman in a blue science smock was spray-painting solar systems on the bulkhead, while next to her, an Andorian male in a gold tunic sprayed graffiti in his native language.

The third thing he noticed...

Bozhe moi, how did I not seen this first?

He had discovered the source of the whooping, the hollering, the commotion that had drawn him in here in the first place. A blonde goddess was doing a strip tease on the table where the captain and Mister Spock had their legendary tri-D chess duels. Chekov swallowed hard. This could only be the equally legendary Ensign Angela Moretti of Security. She was clad only in a bra, her black leotard and boots. Her lithe body gyrated to some sort of ancient song about boots made for walking which was crackling over the sound system. She swung her red uniform around and around and aound and tossed it to the ever growing crowd (mostly men) gravitating to the chess table.

What an angelic face! Chekov decided, but even that expression didn’t even begin to do her justice. Chekov moved closer, drawn like a moth to an open flame. She was an incredible specimen. He drank in the vision of long, tapered, shapely legs, deliciously rounded buttocks, a flat tummy and tiny waist, well-toned arms, and...

Chekov watched mesmerized, as her breasts bounced and bobbled and strained against the thin strips of black fabric that bound them. He realized just then that she saw him staring at her chest. He blushed, but she only smiled sweetly at him. His embarrassment grew, however, when he realized that she was staring at the almost painful bulge in his pants. She ran her tongue across her upper lip and mouthed "I like it!" to him.

At that moment, Chekov fell in love. She is very, very beautiful, he thought. She really does have the face of an angel!

She sat down on the edge of the table, quickly and smoothly pulling of her boots and leotard, stripping down to the bra and a scanty pair of thong underwear. Then she stood up. She didn’t start dancing again, and the rec room fell silent, save for a pair of engineers who were fighting near one of the vending slots, the tinny music which was now playing something about ‘got you babe’ that Chekov didn’t recognize either, and, of course, the popping sound of the popcorn still pouring out of most of the food dispensers.

Chekov realized that a religious experience was about to take place. Angela Moretti was reaching around behind her to unclasp her bra.

No one dared to breathe. It all seemed to happen in surreal slow motion. She slid the straps off her shoulders, and there they were, free and unencumbered, large nipples firm and proudly erect, like quivering mountains of flesh.

"My God!" someone groaned—Freeman, Chekov decided. "She’s actually doing it! Moretti’s flashing her tits!"

"I can die now," another voice chimed in—DePaul, one of the bridge helm officers. "I’ve actually seen heaven itself!"

Chekov stared in disbelief. He’d seen a few porno-holos in his time. One of them featured a scene between Ariel Cord and K.C. Johnson, owners of two of the nicest pairs of breasts in the Federation. Neither actress’ could hold a candle to those of Angela Moretti.

And then, in an almost completely anti-climatic gesture, Moretti stripped off her thong and stood naked before them.

Then she began to bump and grind and gyrate in time to the bawdy music again.

The church-like quiet was shattered by the gleeful whooping and yelling of the delighted spectators. Suddenly, an enormous hand reached up and grabbed her leg from behind, pulling her off-balance and causing her to fall to the floor.

The huge hand was attached to the sinewy arm and thickly-muscled body of Jurgens Kambala, a Human who was born on the heavy-gravity planet Xartheb, a Terran colony. In an Earth-normal environment like that maintained on the Enterprise, Kambala was a virtual superman.

Chekov gaped at him. He was two point one meters tall if he was a centimeter; his biceps looked to be as big around as Chekov’s thighs. A blond crewcut framed his lean face. Cold, pale blue eyes stared piercingly at the terrified Moretti.

"You’re under arrest, Moretti," he snarled. "The rest of you drunken slobs are a disgrace to the uniform," he spat. "But you, Moretti, are going to the brig for being a fuckin’ cock tease." Kambala yanked her up by her hair. He slammed her roughly onto the table top. "I ought to do you right here and now in front of everyone, you slut!"

Chekov shook himself from his horrified paralysis. "Take your filthy hands off of her, you Cossack!" he raged.

"Little man, you’d better mind your own business, or you’ll find yourself drifting out the nearest airlock. I’m Security, you know. I’ll have your commission revoked, and you’ll find yourself in the only decent contribution your people have made to the Federation: a Siberian gulag."

Chekov launched himself at the obviously power-mad Kambala in an ill-advised flying tackle, against his better judgment.

He bounced off as if he had tried to take down a stone wall. "Oi," Chekov mumbled.

Kambala turned and favored him with a feral grin that promised agony and a slow death. He turned and advanced on Chekov. Grabbing the hapless Russian ensign by the throat, Kambala lifted him into the air. "You little mop-headed runt!" he growled. "I feel like killing somebody—might as well be you! Then I’m going to run that whore down to the brig for some...deeply personal interrogation." He hurled Chekov across the rec room as easily as he would have thrown a beach ball.

Chekov slammed back-first into the bulkhead with crushing force. He could have sworn he felt the wall move upon impact. He slid to the deck in a heap, swirling in and out of consciousness as an avalanche of popcorn threatened to bury him alive.

As he tried to get up, a huge hand helped him, grabbing him in a death grip and hoisting him aloft.

Kambala leered at him, drawing back his massive fist. "I’m going to beat you to a pulp!" he grated.

Everything was turning red. Chekov knew he was going to black out. He glanced down to see the bulge in the security guard’s pants and realized how this situation was obviously to Kambala’s liking. In desperation, he drew his foot back and launched his boot heel-first with all his might into his foe’s groin. He was rewarded with the sound of a wet, squishy ‘thuck.’

Kambala let loose an incredibly low groan of outright agony, his eyes glazing over in pain. He dropped Chekov like a sack of potatoes, and collapsed, vomiting.

Chekov slowly sat up in a morass of buttered popcorn, massaging his tortured throat and neck, drawing stertorous grateful gulps of air into his starved lungs. It had suddenly become very hot and sticky in the rec room. He realized he was perspiring heavily; the palms of his hands were especially sweaty, and tingled like the devil, almost itching. He rubbed them against his tunic, but the itching would not abate.

He also realized that he felt very, very good, particularly for someone who had just had the living daylights beaten out of him. He felt warm and fuzzy and lightheaded and comfortably numb all at the same time. Once, when he was an adolescent teenager, he’d found Nana’s private stash of homemade vodka. He remembered the tipsy, giddy, happy way it had felt.

He felt a lot like that right now – like he was very drunk, but he was quite certain he wasn’t.

"My knight in shining armor," a soft voiced cooed in a near whisper.

Chekov raised his head and tried to focus on her face...and failed miserably. His eyes roamed over her lush lips, her flat belly, her downy patch of...

Angela Moretti reached down and pulled him to his feet. Without warning, she crushed him to her in a bear hug and kissed him fiercely and passionately. Finally, she came for air. "Thank you," she managed. "You saved my life!"

"Are you all right?" he asked, his head spinning. "Did that Cossack hurt you?"

She chuckled. "I was more scared than anything else." She kissed him again and pulled back to study his face. "Gosh, you’re cute! Where have you been keeping yourself?"

"Down in Engineering. I’m fairly new."

"Working for Mister Scott, eh? The captain always assigns new officers to Engineering on their first duty station. What’s your name, cutie?"

A silly, lop-sided grin creased Chekov’s face. He pulled away from her, clicked his heels, and saluted. Coming to attention, he pulled in his stomach and thrust out his chest. "I am Czar Nicholas the Third, ruler of all Russia, at your service, milady!" he snapped.

Moretti pulled him back into the circle of her arms. Her musical laugh was intoxicating. "Well, I could just eat you up, Czar Nicholas!" She kissed him again. "Let’s go somewhere where I can thank you properly."

Angela danced across the room, ignoring the fighting that was still going on between various on-lookers, and collected her clothes which she tucked under an arm. She took Chekov by the hand, and they waded through an ocean of popcorn that was nearly waist-deep in some places.

Chekov kept his silly grin pasted in place. An extremely beautiful naked woman was leading him through the corridors of the Enterprise to God only knew where. He enjoyed the startled and appreciative glances they were getting on their journey. He even enjoyed the lascivious leers directed to his buxom companion!

Before long, the crowds thinned out, and the lighting dimmed appreciably. They had stopped walking. Chekov blinked and glanced around, trying to get his bearings.

Suddenly, they heard maniacal laughing in the near distance. They hid behind a projection of a bulkhead that formed part of an archway in the corridor. Chekov peered out cautiously.

In a cross corridor, a slim young Oriental man appeared, whipping a fencing foil every which way as he cackled. Chekov didn’t recognize him, but surmised that he was Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu – the chief helmsman. He was naked from the waist up. Chekov stared enviously. The man was a magnificent specimen. Eagle-chested, compact and well-muscled, his body gleaming with sweat, the would-be musketeer unleashed a flurry of feints and thrusts and parries against an unseen opponent. For a moment, Chekov feared he would come after them. But something else caught the swordsman’s attention. He raced off, his crazed laughter fading in the distance.

Chekov exhaled slowly. "He’s gone. Let’s go."

Moretti led him further down the corridor. Chekov’s face lit up with recognition. They were now in the port section of the cigar-shaped engineering hull, between the huge deflector dish and the warp engine struts. A webwork of beams and support bulkheads formed a honeycomb-like matrix of privacy cubicles with large, rectangular ‘picture window’ viewports of transparent aluminum. They were perfect for crewmembers who wanted to ‘get away from it all’ and relax or read or meditate or pray or—well...

Angela Moretti smacked the ‘entry’ touch sensor pad on an unoccupied alcove, yanked Chekov inside, and locked the door behind them...


Sometime later, Chekov slowly awoke. He no longer felt giddy and intoxicated as he had earlier. If anything, he felt slightly hungover. Nothing really bad; just a mild headache and lethargy.

He became aware that someone was tickling his nose.

His eyes flittered open, and he found himself staring into the incomparably lovely angel face of Angela Moretti. She beamed at him, then kissed him fondly on the forehead. "Hi," she said huskily when she came up for air. "I was wondering if you were going to recover."

"Hi, yourself," Chekov mumbled. She was cuddled up against him, naked, a blanket from the ship’s medical department wrapped around them both. The nearness of her, the heat of her body, the sensation of her beasts against his chest. He didn’t want to ruin the moment, but he gazed around at their surroundings, trying to ascertain their location.

They were in a corridor outside the privacy cubicle, in what appeared to me some sort of triage operation. There were nearly a half dozen individuals in basically the same condition as he and Moretti were, and a medical technician and a nurse were monitoring them with tricorders. One of them spoke, a tall blonde nurse with a Red Cross emblem on her insignia. "No need to worry, Ensigns. You were the victims of a viral infection which acted to release your inhibitions. We’ve got it under control now. Just stay calm." She smiled reassuringly and went to the next victim who had apparently decided to give himself a really bad haircut while affected.

"I guess I ought to introduce myself," she murmured. "I’m Ensign Angela Moretti from Security."

"I know," Chekov said sheepishly.

"You do? How?"

He smiled. "I vwas told that Angela Moretti vwas the most beautiful vwoman on the Enterprise. I figured that had to be you."

She hugged him hard. "God, you’re not only cute, but you’re sweet, too. I don’t suppose they also told you I had the biggest tits on the ship, did they?" Her lips were twisted in a sly expression.

"Da, that, too!" Chekov admitted with a sly grin of his own.

"You stinker!" she exclaimed in mock anger. "I should’ve known you loved me only for my body, and not my mind!"

"You must admit, Ensign, it is vone hell of a body!" Chekov returned, giving her a hug.

"Thanks," she said, her expression now sheepish. "By the way, I am not generally in the habit of doing a strip tease on the captain’s chess table. I’m pretty uninhibited, but I’m not that uninhibited. I guess that’s what Nurse Chapel was talking about with the virus. So, what’s your name, Czar Nicholas?"

It was Chekov’s turned to blush. "Ensign Pavel Andreievich Chekov of Engineering at your service, milady," he answered.

"You, Pavel Andreievich, are a very nice boy. And talented. I don’t think I’ve ever been so thoroughly fucked in my life.

Chekov’s eyebrows rose. "You...enjoyed it?"

Moretti smiled gently. "It was your first time, wasn’t it?"

He lowered his eyes. "Da. I vwas hoping you vwouldn’t notice. I’m sorry if it vwasn’t as good as you vwould have liked."

"Hey, I wasn’t kidding when I said it was the best sex I’ve ever had. You’re sweet and kind and considerate. Besides that, you’ve got some great moves. You’re a natural!" She met his eyes with her own. "I really, really like you, Pavel Andreievich. I want to keep seeing you."

"I’d like that, too," Chekov said. "But don’t you have a boyfriend? Ensign Freeman?"

"Paul?" she asked. "He’s a nice guy, and I like him, but he’s not my boyfriend. We slept together a few times, but he, well, he just doesn’t know how to treat a lady." Her smile grew lascivious. "And besides, just think—if you’re this great of a lover now, imagine what you’ll be like with a little tutoring!" She kissed him slowly, sweetly, tenderly. "And just one thing more," she cautioned him.

"What’s that?"

"I’ve got my own career to think of, Pavel Andreievich. It doesn’t look good if a security officer could be a security risk. I don’t want it known we’re seeing each other. Paul really pissed me off by telling everyone he and I shared the sack. Did you know I can’t be assigned to a landing party if he’s a part of it? That’s why I want our relationship kept private. And we’re free to pursue other interests if we want. Agreed?"

He nodded in understanding. "Agreed."

Nurse Chapel spoke aloud. Virtually everyone in the corridor was stirring. "Okay, everyone, you’ll need to gather your belongings and report to your quarters. Everyone needs to drink at least two glasses of water and sleep eight hours before reporting to your duty station. If anyone feels the need to talk about what happened, Doctor Helen Noel of the medical staff is standing by in Sickbay."

Chekov glanced at Moretti who gave him a quick squeeze under the blanket. "Meet me tonight in my quarters for dinner...and dessert," he suggested.

And she did...and for many, many nights thereafter.


The bosun’s whistle startled Chekov from a deep sleep.

"In case you’re interested, Czar Nicholas, we’ve docked at Starbase Thirty-one." It was Uhura. "I also have another scrambled message from ‘Angel Face.’" She flashed a wicked smile. "Behave yourself, Pavel."

Chekov rubbed his eyes as he waited for the static to clear on his viewscreen – and in his head. ‘Angel Face.’ They had had a great relationship. Oh, she’d seen a few other men for a while, and he had had a brief relationship with Martha Landon among others. But they never lost the affection they had for each other, and kept coming back to each other. It was at her urging that he had applied for Chief of Security aboard the Enterprise.

The screen cleared, and there she was, naked, sitting in an ornate, overstuffed chair in what appeared to be an opulent hotel suite. She had a bottled of chilled champagne in her hand. Her legs were draped over the arms of the chair, affording him a voyeur’s view of the paradise that awaited his arrival. "Room 2173, the Antares Hilton – it’s a honeymoon suite," she whispered. "Get down here before the champagne gets warm."

"Bozhe moi!" Chekov breathed. "Is now new Russian Rule of Engagement: ‘Vwhen all else fails, pray for strength!’"

He smiled, then hoisted his carry all up to his shoulder as he left his cabin.

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