I'll Be Home for Christmas1

"If you find this task distasteful, Mr. Chekov..." Although Ensign Pavel Andreivich Chekov knew that Vulcans were not emotional beings, there did seem to be a definite edge to Mr. Spock's voice. "...then you should have refused this assignment."

"Sir?" The ensign turned around from the console where he was working and blinked at the science officer. Only a metre of empty space separated them. The two Enterprise officers were inside the tiny repair compartment of an automated astrological monitoring unit. They were trying to find and correct the fault in the unit's navigational systems that was causing it to drift off its predetermined course.

"At irregular intervals you are uttering prolonged, audible breaths, Ensign," the science officer informed him. "I believe this usually called 'sighing' -- a sound indicative of a depressed emotional state."

Chekov felt his cheeks going pink. Being caught in an emotional state in front of a Vulcan was as uncomfortable as being caught swearing in front of a priest.

"I'm sorry, sir," he apologized. "I was not aware I was doing so. I will make an effort to discontinue."

"Yes, sir." Chekov turned back to the navigational controls in time to notice that his stylus was floating away again. The work pod inside the monitoring station was equipped with artificial lights and environment to accommodate temporary humanoid occupants, but not with artificial gravity.

Chekov wasn't fond of working in zero-g. It made one feel somehow insubstantial. The capsule's drab machinery and lack of gravity only heightened the ensign's melancholy.

Chekov didn't realize that he'd sighed again until he heard Mr. Spock clear his throat behind him.

"Ensign," the Vulcan began coldly, "I am aware that by being here you are missing the special entertainments scheduled for this Christmas holiday..."

"That is not it, Mr. Spock," he assured his superior quickly. "I volunteered for this assignment. I am not at all reluctant to be assisting you."

The Vulcan didn't look convinced. "Christmas seems to be a time of great emotional upheaval for natives of Earth," he observed critically.

"Yes, sir." For a moment, Chekov felt abashed for the entire human race. "However, it is primarily a Western religious celebration. Since I am neither a Westerner nor religious, the holiday is of reduced significance to me."

Spock raised one dubious eyebrow at this explanation, but returned to his work without further comment.

Chekov clipped his stylus, which was on the verge of floating into orbit again, securely onto its magnetic holder and studied the computer log he'd pulled on screen. Finding himself unexpectedly half-way through another sigh, the ensign held his breath then pretended to be clearing his throat.

"Even for those with no particular attachment to the holiday," Spock's voice said, behind him, "I have observed that the Science Division's annual Christmas Party is an occasion that many on the Enterprise eagerly anticipate. Most look on duty assignment that preclude their attending that function as hardships."

As true as that might have been two weeks ago, his recent breakup with Ensign Leigh Ann Howard from Biochemistry had put a definite damper on that particular party for Chekov.

"I was not planning to attend this year, Mr. Spock," he replied, "under any circumstances."

When there was no response to this from the other side of the room, Chekov paged back to the top of the column of figures he was examining. He punched in an order for the computer to cross-reference instances of navigational equipment failure with the utilization of the station's spectral analysis equipment. He watched the screen as the computer painstakingly checked and reported on each coincidence. This was the fifth sub-system he'd checked thus far. Tedious work, perhaps, but not really the sort of thing he minded under normal circumstances...

Chekov squeezed his eyes closed in embarrassment, hearing his own sigh seconds after it had left his lips.

"If your recent disassociation with Ensign Howard is affecting your concentration..."

The ensign grimaced. Thoughts of Ensign Howard, who was undoubtedly at the Christmas party right now with Lieutenant James Patterson -- who, Chekov had found, much to his displeasure, Howard had been dating concurrently -- brought several strong emotions to the surface, but none that would make him sigh.

Deciding it might help to keep himself as busy as possible, Chekov picked up his stylus and pad and began to work on the possibility that there was a numeric pattern that linked the station's misplotted coordinates. However, ignoring the great feeling of melancholy that was near to overwhelming him was like trying to ignore someone tapping at your cabin door at irregular intervals.

"Ensign Chekov, despite your claim that you are not a religious person, you are now sighing and calling on the name of a deity."

"Yes, sir. I am very sorry, sir." Without intending to, Chekov finished his apology off with yet another sigh, garnering him a cold look from the Science Officer. "I don't seem to be able to stop myself."

"I simply feel... I feel..." Chekov faltered in discussing his emotions under the Vulcan's unemotional gaze. "It's rather embarrassing, sir."

"I feel homesick," Chekov blurted out, deciding it was better to tell the truth than let his superior officer guess something much more embarrassing. "Terribly, terribly homesick. I don't know why. I have not felt this way in years."

"As I said previously, this particular holiday does seem to be a most unfortunately emotional time for most Humans native to Earth."

"That does have something to do with it," Chekov admitted. "Before we left, someone was playing a song in the officers' lounge on deck five. I cannot get it out of my mind. I believe it is an old English carol. The words were, 'I'll be home for Christmas, you can count on me. I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.'"

"Scarcely an old English carol, Ensign," Spock corrected. "The song was of twentieth century American origin."

The ensign shrugged. "All I meant to say was that it was an old Christmas song written in English."

"Then that's what you should have said, Mr. Chekov," the science officer asserted fastidiously.

"Yes, sir," Chekov agreed -- although he thought that the damned thing could have been written last week by a Martian for all the difference it made. "There was something about the words..."

"Ensign," the Vulcan interrupted firmly, "I think your distressing emotional state might be improved if you focused your analytic powers on the task at hand and left contemplation of popular sentimental melodies for a more appropriate time and place."

'Concentrate on something else,' he ordered himself -- as though that wasn't exactly what he'd been trying to do for the past hour.

Perhaps Mr. Spock was right. Perhaps this was just Christmas catching up with him. All the nostalgic imagery of snow scenes... Chekov bit his lip just in time to stifle another sigh.

'I'll place a call to my mother as soon as we return,' he promised himself silently.

Somehow, this didn't seem to be enough. Some part of his brain desperately wanted to be there -- to be home. Chekov closed his eyes...

...And suddenly he was there. The endless blue sky and white, snow-covered plains of Siberia ranged before him. Chekov blinked, but the scene didn't go away. This was certainly the most realistic daydream he'd ever had. Surrendering to it for a moment, he pulled his papaha -- a large fur hat -- down over his ears and was glad of the heavy tulup -- sheepskin coat -- he was wearing.

As he stood in the stirrups to get a better look at the scene in front of him, his insatiable longing to return home resurfaced.

'This is ridiculous,' he thought to himself. 'Riding horseback, I'm impossibly far from my home."

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