"Dull work, this," Davies commiserated with her guard.

The large, maroon-skinned Kibrian who had been assigned to 'supervise' her did not deign to respond. He was content to sit like so much statuary in the chair opposite the room's large desk, against which Davies was leaning. Only his small eyes seemed to move.

Davies had wasted the first five minutes she'd been trapped in the tiny office reproaching herself for being stupid enough to be caught in such a predicament. Now, however, her interest was at last turning to her silent companion. The more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed that they would put a guard inside a locked room with her. Normal procedure, it seemed to her, would have been to station the guard outside.

'It's not as though I'm going to do anything worth watching,' she thought. 'Unless I try to choke myself to death on stationery.'

That and a few decorative knick-knacks was all that was available on the desktop. Her guard had done nothing to prevent her trying all the locked drawers.

'It seems reasonable to assume that he might be in here because there's a way out of here they hope I don't find,' she decided after some consideration.

The obvious choice was the window.

"Mind if I get some air?" she said, crossing to it.

The Kibrian showed no signs of life.

Already disappointed, she tried to open the casement anyway. "Locked. What a surprise."

The view wasn't a promising one at any rate. The window opened onto an enclosed courtyard where several obviously highborn Kibrian children were playing — attended, of course, by a phalanx of low castes. Davies knew she wouldn't get ten feet into the garden without being spotted.

Just when she was on the verge of admitting defeat, another possibility occurred to the ensign.

"Lovely room," she said, tapping the very solid-sounding wall next to her. She took a few paces and tapped again. "Isn't it?"

Her guard began to show the first signs of disquiet she'd seen as she moved to the next wall and tapped again. "Please, sit down."

"Oh, and here I was thinking you couldn't talk," Davies said pleasantly as she tested the wall a few feet further along. A section of the wall was covered by a large tapestry — as was common in many rooms in the station. The first two taps sounded solid but the third one had a hollow ring to it. She smiled at the guard as she tapped the spot again. "Kibrian architecture is so fascinating, don't you think?"

"Sit down." The guard drew his weapon. "Now."

"I think you're going to have to make me do that," she informed him pleasantly as she moved to pull the tapestry aside.

The guard tried to do so, crossing rapidly to her and grabbing her by the shoulder. As she hoped he would, he overestimated the impressiveness of his own bulk and underestimated her Academy-trained ability to defend herself. The Kibrian was therefore quite surprised to find himself suddenly flipped onto his back on the floor. To add insult to injury, Davies quickly retrieved his weapon from where it had skidded from his grip and used it to stun him before he regained enough composure to raise an alarm.

"Now, to see what's behind curtain #1," Davies said, lifting the tapestry. Behind it was a door… also locked.

Davies sighed, realising the Kibrian had assumed she had an ability to improvise lock picking equipment that she could only wish she possessed.

After a moment of despair, she looked down at the weapon in her hand.

"What a bloody fool I turn into sometimes," she muttered, firing at the lock.

The door swung open, revealing a staircase that descended into darkness.

"Pleasant dreams," she wished her guard before letting the tapestry fall shut behind her.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"It seems strange," Driant commented discontentedly, "that your servant could give us answers so much faster than you can."

"I guess you didn't have him writing with a pen." Sulu stopped in the midst of a complex formula. "Besides, he's more intelligent than you guys give him credit for… I mean, he was more intelligent."

Driant shrugged. "You forget that I did have the opportunity to observe him first hand."

"Yeah," Sulu agreed bitterly. "You guys had him pretty fooled, didn't you? He really thought Kahsheel was in love with him."

"Most servants are easily swept away by their emotions and overawed by attentions from members of the upper castes. Despite the fact that he was an alien, yours was no different."

Sulu squeezed the pen in his hand tightly. "I wish you would quit talking about him that way — calling him my servant. If you want to talk about him, call him by his name. I know you know his name."

"Why does it make a difference?"

"Because that's what killed him," the lieutenant replied. "Being my servant."

"No," the Kibrian rebutted pragmatically. "Swallowing poison killed him."

One of Driant's servants entered to deliver a note.

"Hmm." The Kibrian frowned at the words on the page, then nodded towards Sulu.

"Wait a minute," Sulu protested as the servants took the pen and paper from him and retied his arms. "Hey, I thought we had a deal."

"There's been a change in plans. Nothing to worry about." Driant folded the note and put it inside his robe. "At least, not for me."

He crossed to the door and opened it. A Kibrian entered. His or her face — it was hard to tell — was mostly obscured by a charcoal grey coloured scarf.

Sulu swallowed hard. Grey, particularly charcoal, was a colour associated with executioners in Kibrian culture.

The unknown Kibrian slowly advanced on him, holding what was unmistakably — despite its unfamiliar design — a hypodermic.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"This is highly irregular, sir!" Johnson protested, attempting to shake off the Kibrian Security Officer who was holding him — a somewhat useless gesture since they had also handcuffed him. "Datvin, I demand to be released immediately!"

The Station Manager closed the door of the Medical Office behind him. "These are irregular times, Mister Johnson. Did you find him in his quarters, Nilm?"

"No, sir," the most senior of the three officers who had apprehended the meteorologist reported. "He was on his way there from this direction. We found these things on him."

"Hmm…" Datvin frowned at the phaser the officer handed him. "I didn't think you were permitted to carry this in the station except in the case of an emergency, Ensign."

Johnson remained silent, mentally kicking himself for not realising that 'Mister Johnson, may we speak with you?' should have been his cue to draw his weapon.

"This looks like the piece of medical equipment that Ensign Davies believed stolen." The Kibree smiled as he tucked the small white box inside his robe. "She will doubtless be relieved to see it again… And what is this? Hair?"

Johnson tried to think of a plausible explanation as the Kibrian shook several pieces out of their paper container into his hand.

"Of an alien… but somehow familiar… colour and texture," Datvin said, running his long fingers over the strands.

"It's Chekov's," Johnson admitted, deciding the truth was his safest refuge. "I decided to keep it for… sentimental reasons."

"Sir," one of the Security men interrupted. "The body of Lieutenant Sulu's servant is no longer in any of the Federation Officers' quarters."

Johnson swallowed hard. The first bad thing was that the explanation that he and Chekov had concocted for the disappearance of the navigator's corpse presupposed he wouldn't be telling it to Datvin and his assistants. The second bad thing was that if Datvin's men had used the Security override to enter their quarters, they had seen evidence that the team was preparing to evacuate.

"Mister Johnson?" the Station Manager politely invited.

"I had to disintegrate the body," Johnson explained. "It… wasn't lasting well."

"My condolences, Ensign," Datvin replied smoothly. "I don't mean to distress you further in what is obviously an emotional time, but we feel we must place you under… let us say, protective custody, pending the investigation of certain matters."

"What matters?"

"I am not at liberty to discuss that at present, but be assured the Station Director herself will be speaking with you as soon as things are better in hand."

"Good." Johnson nodded, his eyes falling on his translator that still safely held a copy of the Medical Officer's confession. "I have a few things I'm sure she'll be interested to hear."

As if the Kibrian read his thoughts, Datvin reached out and casually plucked the translator from Johnson's belt. "I'm afraid I'll have to confiscate this device also," he said, signalling the security men to take the meteorologist away.

"Wait! Wait!" Johnson protested as they dragged him down the corridor. "I can't speak Kibrian!"

"How unfortunate," the Station Manager said, smiling.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"We found a kirrie making a wander in the tunnels," one of Chekov's captors announced as they forced him to his knees. From the few clues the ensign could glean through his blindfold, he'd been brought to a large, torch-lit chamber. All around him were the shuffling of feet and the clinking of what sounded like weapons.

"Then you should have killed him there." Chekov instantly recognised Mras' voice.

"Take sight of him, Mras."

To aid in this, the wrappings were pulled from around Chekov's eyes. The dwarf sat before him on an improvised bed of flour sacks stuffed with leaves and old clothes. With his back propped up against more of the same, he was studying what seemed to be a map and marking it with a long piece of charcoal wrapped in rags. He only gave Chekov a brief glance. "An ugly little runt," he commented, before going back to his work.

"He said he took knowing of you, Mras." The speaker turned out to be Mras' tall friend. Chekov was surprised that he hadn't recognised the servant's voice sooner.

The dwarf's bed was in a partially curtained off corner of the chamber. A lot of activity was going on behind them but when the ensign tried to look in that direction his head was roughly turned back by one of the two Kibrians flanking him. Neither of them seemed specifically familiar, but Chekov thought he might have seen both of them somewhere before.

"I take no knowledge of him." The dwarf didn't bother to look up this time. "If he took calling my name, then he's of Gebain's sending. Kill him."

"He put me in mind of the Feddie," Mras' dark-skinned friend said over Chekov's muffled protests.

"The Feddie's dead," Mras scoffed. "Were this he, we'd be giving him the knife all the same."

Chekov opened his eyes at this — as much as his eyes would open under their thick synthetic-skin-laden lids. He hadn't expected Mras to greet him with open arms, but he certainly hadn't foreseen that the dwarf would advocate killing him.

"I know the Feddie's taken dead," the dark-skinned Kibrian persisted, giving a sign for Chekov's two guards to wait. "But this one… takes his manner… his way of making speech."

"You've taken soft in the head, Ghul," Mras derided. Nevertheless, he folded his map and reaching out with his good arm, pulled the gag away from Chekov's mouth. "Make speech, kirrie."

"I have come to join you," Chekov said slowly and deliberately, trying to minimise the fact that he was the only person on this planet who spoke Kibrian with a Russian accent. "I take knowledge of… of explosives."

From the glances that his captors exchanged over his head, the ensign could see that he'd gotten their attention. It was a dangerous opening, but since his only alternative was being taken out and summarily executed, Chekov figured he had little to lose.

"Who sent you?" Mras demanded.

This was not a question Chekov was prepared for. He didn't even have a wide enough experience with Kibrians to make up a convincing sounding fake. "Selrideen," he answered on impulse.

Mras snorted. "That goes with your thinking, Ghul. Maybe Selrideen has sent the Feddie back in the form of this maggot-chewed kirrie to haunt me."

"Why would a kirrie want to join us?" one of Chekov's guards asked in a surprisingly dialect-free voice. Looking up at him again, the ensign thought he placed him as one of the dining-hall servers — although that didn't seem to explain why he wouldn't speak in slave caste patois.

"Well…" Chekov cast about for a reasonable explanation. He'd never known of a Kibrian doing anything for purely altruistic reasons. "As you see, I'm not a tall person…"

This provoked some general laughter among his captors — even Mras.

"I was lucky not to have become a servant myself," he continued. "My children may not be so lucky. I believe the time has come for change."

"He's no Feddie," Mras asserted, folding his arms. "The Feddies like things the way they are."

"Our Feddie was no tall man," Ghul observed. "He stood only just so high…" The Kibrian placed his hand on top of Chekov's head. "…were he to kneel."

"Give quiet, Ghul," Mras sneered. "Save such fright tales for the nammies." The dwarf's small slanted eyes turned back to the ensign. "I've got a job for wee kirrie."

Although he got the distinct feeling he wasn't off the hook yet, Chekov replied, "I'm willing to do anything."

"Good." The dwarf pulled his map open. "You take knowledge of explosives, eh?"

"Yes."

Mras pointed to a spot with his charcoal stick. "We'll let you put one here."

Chekov wished fervently that he was literate in Kibrian. The page showed what was recognisably a plan of the station annotated with scrawls that undoubtedly outlined the servant's plan. "That's… uhm… one of the main galleries, isn't it?" he guessed from the shape of the place Mras was indicating.

The dwarf nodded. "Here they are laying out the curly red one to rot… but we'll be more kind." The little man grinned at Chekov like a fiend. "We'll let you send her straight to Selrideen."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Oh, God, what I wouldn't do for a good torch," Davies groaned, picking herself up off the compacted earth. She'd fallen down the last four steps of the ancient and uneven flight., As she felt around for her weapon she told her bruises to be glad it had only been four steps she'd missed. It could just as easily have been half the flight.

With weapon in hand, she peered into the darkness surrounding her. Once the curtain had fallen back into place not a glimmer of light found its way into the under tunnels. Davies tried to remember what Chekov had said about them… they extended up to but not under the kitchens… Mras had attacked Gebain down here and was now hidden somewhere in the mazes… There was a staircase that went up to Kahsheel's quarters somewhere…

Weighing the options that were open to her, Davies considered going back up and apologising to her guard.

'No,' she decided silently. 'Now's no time to be sitting and waiting for someone else to sort things out.'

Davies wasn't even sure there was such a someone anymore. She swallowed miserably. Chekov was dead — and while that wasn't her fault, her recollections of him were certainly tainted with guilt — Sulu was missing and Johnson — well, she wasn't quite sure what Johnson was good for even if he were at liberty. If the Director had her way, the meteorologist was probably under lock and key already.

'It's up to me,' she decided. 'Now what's your brilliant plan of action, Ensign Davies?'

It would be most helpful if she could reach Mras and discover what his plans were. The obvious problem with this course of action was that she had no idea of where in this labyrinth the dwarf was supposed to be. Even if she did find him, she'd had no previous dealings with the Kibree that would make him inclined to trust her. He was just as likely to have her knifed on the spot.

The only servants she'd really ever talked to were the two servant women who'd come to see about Chekov. They seemed respectful, sympathetic and not entirely devoid of intelligence. Now was not the time to hold their looks against them. Who knows, with access to decent clothes and dentistry, they might not be quite so disastrous. They did seem very fond of Chekov. She supposed it was his good manners. Unlike some young men of her acquaintance, he wouldn't ignore or slight a woman just because she wasn't fashionably attractive.

'But still, how he could have…' Davies made a face at the thought. 'Must have been the peeva. He hasn't been in control of himself for the last few days… And what's your excuse, Davies?'

She carefully fixed her current position in her mind, then concentrated on recalling the floor plan of the station. Although the offices of the Director were not easily accessible from the kitchens, they were on a parallel corridor and not too distant. It was possible that the tunnels would bear some relation to the building above. Maybe, if she was very lucky, she could find her way to the kitchens and emerge into daylight. And when she got back, she decided to suggest to the captain that Star Fleet uniforms be made out of something flammable in future. Without material to ignite, her stolen weapon was useless in her current plight.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Manager Datvin." The Medical Officer stepped out into the corridor and directly into the path of his superior. "A crisis has arisen. Your son's condition is deteriorating."

"What?" Datvin halted. "What is wrong?"

"The Federation instrument did not work properly, or I did not use it correctly. There is a haemorrhage at the site of the excision…"

"I will bring you the instrument. I confiscated it from Ensign Johnson…"

Datvin took a first long stride in the direction of his office, only to be stayed by the Medical Officer's hand.

"No, that won't do. I need advice in its use. There are obviously fine points of technique…" The doctor flapped his robe nervously. "Datvin, you must arrange for me to see the Federation personnel. I believe I can persuade Johnson to assist me… Perhaps by suggesting some harm may befall his colleagues… Does he know the female escaped and is lost in the tunnels? I could offer to send a search party…"

"Are you mad?" the manager snapped. "Who would go down there, today of all days, after what happened to Gebain?"

"Manager, it is not necessary that we send anyone," the doctor pointed out. "Only that the offer be made. Bring the instrument and take me to wherever Johnson is being held."

"He's under guard," Datvin warned.

"Say I must question him. Concerning the risk of storing a human body on the premises."

"The body is no longer here. He used his weapon to disintegrate it."

The doctor nodded. "Do his guards know that?"

"Yes. He told me himself in front of them." Datvin pulled on his long nose anxiously as he thought. "My son, is he in great danger?"

"Imminent danger," the Medical Officer pronounced, fastening piercing eyes on Datvin.

"Then we must hurry. I will get the instrument and Johnson's translation device from my office." Datvin set off again. "We will think of an excuse for you to speak to Johnson privately," he said over his shoulder, his pace quickening with every step.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"How do you come to take knowledge of explosives, kirrie?" Ghul asked as he shepherded Chekov through the large chamber outside Mras' curtained off enclosure.

"As long as I do," Chekov countered, trying to sound the part of a high caste, "does it matter how?"

His escort made no reply.

The ensign tried to take in all he could without looking too interested in his surroundings. The confusion of light and shadow made it difficult to tell, but there must have been well over thirty people in the large room. Many were rushing around with boxes and armloads of things that looked like they had the potential to be used as weapons. He had trouble seeing people's faces as he was led through the crowd, but everyone seemed to be in slave caste garments and most of the voices he heard sounded masculine. There was the same tension in the air as on the bridge of a starship on red alert.

"There." Ghul pushed a couple of Kibree aside, revealing a pile of wooden boxes. Their lids had been carelessly ripped off, leaving ugly splinters of timber. Inside were paper-wrapped packages, about the size of a man's forearm. The dark-skinned servant picked one up and waved it under Chekov's nose. "You take knowledge of this?"

Chekov sniffed the package cautiously, then peeled a little of the paper aside with his thumb nail. Whatever was inside was creamy white and soft as cheese. "Yes," he lied. "Where did you get it?"

"Stone quarry. From the manager's house." Ghul patted a stack proudly. "New load. Very fresh."

Presumably this was their explosive. Chekov decided to proceed on that assumption and ignore the possibility that he was being offered something to eat. "How do you propose to detonate it?"

Another Kibree seized a sack and tipped out thirty or forty little devices. Chekov took a frightened step backwards, wary that the action might set them off. When they just lay there on the floor he knelt down to take a closer look. They reminded the ensign of nothing so much as antique mouse traps. As close as he could figure, the devices wound up and then slowly unwound, finally releasing a spring-loaded hammer. Not particularly reliable creations to Chekov's Star Fleet trained eyes. Ghul peeled a bar of explosive and began to tie one of the devices to it. Chekov brought one of the little detonators over to the lantern to try to see how it worked. There was nothing to strike a spark or create a current. It must be simply the shock of the metal arm hitting the back plate that caused the explosive to go up. He stepped away from the boxes again. They were piled in haphazard, tottering columns.

"A hand for curly red's pyre." Ghul grinned and pushed six primed bars together neatly. Chekov breathed in carefully. "The explosion - the main explosion will take place during Engineer Kahsheel's funeral?"

Ghul nodded. "With all her kin and the kiani and the directors standing about her making a sad face."

Chekov was thankful his own features were stiffened, otherwise they would have betrayed him. "But… but the servants will be at work again then."

Ghul nodded. "In kitchen or in dining hall — making ready the funeral feast. All slags will make way to kitchens — and be safe."

"I see." And the Star Fleet officers, having left the building in response to Mras' warning, would probably have decided to return by then. Sulu, at least, would be sure to be in attendance at a state occasion. Was Mras being cynically murderous, or… No, when he'd warned Chekov, there had been no funeral planned. Presumably the dwarf had adapted his plans to take advantage of the concentration of powerful and hated kiani in the gallery at a single moment, and at a time when servants had every excuse to be elsewhere.

Ghul smiled. "Today is kepir hunt, so kiani will give us service at moonset meal — then die."

His fellow conspirators grinned appreciatively at this irony.

"Come, little kirrie." The big servant pulled the detonator out of the ensign's hands then pushed him away from the boxes. "You will take need to go to gallery half hour before service… to make respect to curly red."

The other Kibree laughed at this as Ghul forced Chekov to sit down between them. "But you take need of more lookly garb to make call on kianis. Take waiting here while I nab cloak from my kirrie."

"Won't that be too large for me?" Chekov asked, trying not to sound like someone who realised he was a prisoner.

"You'll be big with firebricks, kirrie," Ghul assured him, then cautioned his companions, "Take careful watch of this one."

Ignoring the sets of eyes attentively fastened on his person, Chekov leaned back against the rough wall of the cellar and watched Ghul disappear into one of the black tunnel mouths that opened out of this cave. The ensign figured he could probably get away from his guards, but it was ten to one the boxes of 'firebricks' would be overturned in the scuffle. Even if they weren't, and he managed to snatch a lamp to take with him, Chekov was certain that only a short time would elapse before they caught up with him again, or he got hopelessly lost.

The ensign massaged his poor swollen nose and idly wondered if it would ever return to its original shape. When he'd suggested this plan to Johnson, he hadn't stopped to think about how uncomfortable its effects were going to be… or how useless he was going to be.

"Who obtained the firebricks for you?" Chekov asked as conversationally as he could, deciding that he might as well try to get what information he could while he was sitting there. After all, he still didn't know if this nest of subversives was being paid for or otherwise manipulated by some group of kiani.

"What need do you take of knowing, kirrie?" one of his watchers demanded.

"People say that there are kiani behind this," he lied smoothly.

His captors exchanged puzzled frowns.

"Why would kiani want to destroy Selrideen's palace?" The Kibree who asked this turned out to be the server Chekov remembered from the dining hall. "Many of them will die when Mras gives his signal."

Chekov wondered again why this servant spoke so well. Perhaps he was a former high caste - a convicted criminal. Chekov stopped himself from pulling away from the man as he remembered that in the eyes of the Kibrians he himself was a convicted criminal. The ensign knew very well that he was neither stupid not antisocial. Why did he persist in assuming every other servant was?

"Some kiani want to stop the Federation…" Chekov paused and corrected himself. "…the Feddies from coming here. Others want to work with them more. Either side could use this trouble to persuade the government to accept their point of view."

"You think that what we do today is a mistake, eh?" It was Mras who interrupted the conversation. He was leaning on a makeshift crutch and smoking his revolting pipe.

Chekov felt a surge of panic at that naked cinder of peeva so near the boxes of explosive. Then he realised how ridiculous he was being. The room was full of primitive lamps and torches. But the fear in his stomach didn't go away, even when he recognised it wasn't fear at all. He felt his throat grow tight. "Mras…"

The dwarf took a deep drag on his pipe, then blew the aromatic smoke towards the ensign in a long, slow, deliberate stream. "You come to make a spying on us, kirrie?" he asked in a deceptively mild tone.

Chekov couldn't make his mind function. This suggestion required far too complicated a rebuttal. The red glow from Mras' pipe seemed to swell and pulse out into the darkness. "No… No, I came to find you."

The dwarf hobbled closer. "Who told you where to find us? Not Selrideen, I think."

Chekov backed up as far as he could against the wall and held his breath. He knew it made him look guilty, but there was no helping that. He had to get away from that damned pipe.

"Who sent you here?" The dwarf grabbed the front of Chekov's ragged tunic. The pipe was inches from the ensign's nose. "Was it Gebain?"

When Chekov didn't answer, the dwarf banged him against the wall, forcing the ensign to take in a deep breath of the peeva saturated air around him.

"It was Gebain, wasn't it, kirrie?" the dwarf demanded.

"Yes," Chekov agreed numbly, meaning only that yes, he would very much appreciate a drag of that pipe. "I mean, no…"

The dwarf smiled with satisfaction as he stepped back, taking the pipe out of the ensign's reach. "Put this lying kirrie in there," he ordered his co-conspirators. "When the time comes, he will be buried alive."

Chekov couldn't see where Mras was pointing, but he was seized and dragged backwards through a narrow arch. Tripping over what felt like rubble on the floor, he staggered further into the unknown. A door thundered shut and he was in absolute darkness, shaking and sweating with the need for peeva.

"How can it… how can it hit this suddenly?" he whispered to himself. The unseen room was rotating around him. The ensign was cold, so cold. Every bruise he'd acquired in the last few days ached with fresh intensity.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Johnson pulled a chair out from the desk, managing its solid bulk as easily as a native. He sat down as if the two Security Officers weren't there and pondered what he was going to say to the Director when she turned up.

Sulu was missing. Davies had apparently vanished voluntarily.

Although he couldn't understand Kibrian, the reaction of the guards to the empty room, the unconscious guard and the melted lock was clear enough. The meteorologist was also aware that he'd given the Director enough excuse to keep him here for the moment. The question was, could he persuade her to mount a search for the missing lieutenant? Should he tell her about Mras' plans for the station, or should he simply keep silent and wait for someone else to rescue him?

Chekov was his wild card — however, the trouble with Chekov was his tendency to be the joker in the deck. If he discovered that Mras was independently planning a Spartacus style revolt, Chekov would probably applaud it vehemently and offer to plant bombs himself. No… Chekov was a Star Fleet officer. He wouldn't become involved. So, if Mras was on his own, Chekov would return to their quarters and start trying to round up the team and get them out of the building. He'd be unarmed, unless he could obtain weapons from the slaves. Maybe that was a bit much to hope for.

If, on the other hand, Mras proved to be in the pay of either the conservative or the progressive faction — and either might see the destruction of the Selrideen station as an opportunity to whip up support — Chekov would probably want to contact one of his fellow officers in order to pass a warning to the Director and thwart the planned destruction. Since Sulu and Davies were both missing, Chekov would have to get to Johnson.

'Therefore,' Johnson decided, 'I must make certain I am available.'

The guards didn't seem inclined to agree. This feeling of helplessness was absolutely galling. If only he knew where Sulu was… or if Davies had waited, so that they could have escaped together…

Johnson cast his eyes around the room, looking for an alternative escape route that Davies had missed. The two guards watched him, looking very alert and determined not to repeat their colleague's mistake.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Davies wiped tears of frustration out of her eyes with bruised fingers. She didn't even know how long she'd been down here and for all she knew she might be exactly where she'd started.

"This is impossible," she said aloud. "I'm not getting anywhere."

The texture of the wall was unchanging rough stone, the floor was uniform hard packed earth. Once or twice she'd crunched something underfoot — a beetle she imagined. Each time, she'd barely stopped herself screaming. She wasn't normally nervous or squeamish, but the absolute darkness was nudging her towards hysteria.

The under tunnels weren't silent. The noises she heard were distorted and seemed to come first from one direction, then from the exact opposite. Some boomed and reverberated, as if echoing through pipes. The faint musical sound of running water grew sometimes louder but she never found its source.

'All right, Davies,' she ordered herself, straightening her uniform in the darkness. 'Get a hold on yourself. I will try one more time - going straight ahead if I can, turning alternately right and left if I can't. And then…'

A glimmer of lamp light reflected off a wall. Her eyes wouldn't immediately tell her how distant it was but she impulsively rushed towards it. When it vanished, she still plunged forward.

And collided with the end of the tunnel.

"Hello!Can anyone hear me? Is anyone there?" Better to be caught than to starve to death in the dark. "Could someone help me? Please, someone answer!"

There was no answering call, no sign of the lamp's golden glow.

Davies sat down on the floor, holding her breath until the urge to sob passed. In its place, she began to hiccup.

"Oh, hell."

She shut her eyes and thought aloud. "I saw the light somewhere along this corridor. I ran about twenty paces before I hit the wall. Whoever had the light must have turned off this corridor somewhere in the last twenty paces. So I just have to try all the turnings. But first… Aah!"

A hand clamped itself over her mouth. "You lost, girl-Feddie?"

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"I must talk to you, Mister Johnson." The Medical Officer entered the office where the ensign was still waiting.

No plausible means of escape had occurred to the meteorologist. Had there been only one guard, or if he hadn't been handcuffed… And if two of Datvin's workmen hadn't just spent half an hour fitting a new, more substantial lock to the door behind the tapestry…

Johnson jumped to his feet, eliciting startled growls of disapproval from his guards.

"In private," the doctor continued, waving the Security men towards the door. "It is a medical matter."

"Our orders…" the larger of the two Kibree objected.

"You will wait outside."

Johnson noticed for the first time that Datvin was standing in the doorway. The manager moved aside to allow his officers to pass him. Then he fixed Johnson with a stony glare. "And you will not cause further trouble. I advise you to cooperate fully with the doctor. Otherwise the consequences for the other members of your party might be serious."

The ensign imagined that, to the security guards, that might sound only like an urging to answer the doctor's questions and take one's medicine. To his ears it carried a more sinister intent.

The door shut on them both. The Medical Officer slid the translator onto the table.

"Let me tell you what I have discovered. Someone claims to have found the body of Lieutenant Sulu, but now there is no trace of it. During the search for Mister Sulu, Engineer Uyal was found unconscious in the power control room. Do you know anything about that?"

Johnson eyed the Kibree suspiciously, ignoring the frightened thrill that shivered him at the thought that he might now be in charge of this ill-fated mission, at least as far as the Kibree were concerned. "I'm sorry, but… how do I know I can trust you?"

The Medical Officer spread his hands wide. "You are virtually under arrest, Miss Davies is in great danger in the tunnels, Mister Sulu is missing — I don't believe he is dead, but you must consider it. Can you afford not to trust me?"

The meteorologist thought hard. "Lieutenant Sulu… had reason to believe someone might try to sabotage the station. We considered that one likely method would be to rupture the gas line under the station, filling the tunnels with gas. Then, when the power came back on at first moonset, the station would be destroyed. He decided to damage the power controls to delay the restoration of power, while we tried to find out what was happening."

"Isn't that interfering?" the Kibree asked.

"Not if the intention of the saboteurs was primarily to kill us."

"I see. And Uyal?"

"Mister Sulu found him there already, setting up an overload that would wreck the station computer, in such a way as to make us look responsible."

The doctor nodded. "In order to turn the Assembly against further cooperation. I see. Now let me tell you, since you have spoken frankly with me, how I can help you."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Davies was led through the tunnels by her captors. They emerged into a great chamber that seemed brilliantly lit in contrast to the dim glow of a single lamp. She wished they hadn't tied her hands behind her. She could have used at least one of them to shield her eyes. As she began to adjust to the brightness, Davies glanced around, trying to take in any clues as to where she now was.

"Day-veez."

She turned to see who this was that knew her name. A red-bearded dwarf — this had to be Mras, the one who specialised in making trouble for Chekov — hobbled across the chamber towards her.

"Selrideen showers me with gifts today!" the dwarf crowed delightedly. When he snapped his fingers, his comrades pushed Davies down to her knees in front of him. "Hello, Day-veez."

"Hello, Mras," Davies replied bravely, very glad her captors hadn't confiscated her translator along with her weapon.

"I didn't think you knew my name." The dwarf caressed her cheek with one rough, filthy hand. The smell of him was enough to turn her stomach. "But I take knowledge of you, girl-Feddie. You're a lookly little mort, aren't you?"

Davies still couldn't quite figure out the slave patois, but one didn't have to be a linguistics expert to figure what the dwarf meant. "Now, see here…" she began, pulling away as best she could.

"And you're the one who's taken a taste for owning slags, aren't you?" Mras smiled cruelly. "Why are you coming here, Day-veez? To find yourself a new slave boy?"

Davies frowned. How long was that ill-fated charade going to haunt her? "Actually, I didn't intend to come here at all. I'm lost."

"Take property of me, girl-Feddie," a toothless old man begged mockingly. "I'll make a right bedslag for you."

"No, thank you," Davies replied coolly, after the general laughter had died down. "The use of a lantern and a shove in the right direction is all I'm asking."

"Su, but she's a ready little uzhist." A tall green-skinned slave fingered a lock of Davies' hair with rough familiarity. "No need to take killing of her too quickly, eh, Mras?"

The dwarf slapped the green-skin's hand away. "We're not going to kill her at all, maggot brain," he snapped. "We take hostage of this one. When palace falls, the sky Feddies will come back for their dead. If we give this one up to them safe, they will be debted to us. We can make barter with them. They'll build us a new palace and give us kiani as our slags, won't they, Day-veez?"

The ensign's reply of, "I wouldn't count on it," was lost in the rebels' loud chorus of approval for the dwarf's plan.

"Take watch of her," Mras ordered two of his fellow conspirators, then pulled a surprisingly long knife out of his tunic. "But I give warning. The man that makes to touch her will have a tasting of this. And if any take doubting I'm able, ask Gebain."

The thought of the mighty major domo laid low by the little dwarf was an extremely pleasant one for the slaves. They laughed and smiled as they jerked Davies to her feet.

"Ask Gebain!" they echoed, proudly thumping Mras on the back as a sack of some sort was dropped over Davies' head.

She was dragged away by unseen hands. From the change in noise level, she could tell she'd been taken out of the main chamber. She was held firmly while a door was noisily unbolted.

"She can keep company with the kirrie 'til we move out," an unfamiliar voice explained to someone.

Davies was pushed forward. The door slammed shut behind her, cutting off any further chance of hearing their plans. She stumbled forward a few steps, bringing her momentum under control. Davies stood motionless, collecting her thoughts and impressions of where she was. The space around her felt small, but the air was fresh.

And there was definitely someone - or something - else in here. The "kirrie" presumably. What did that mean? Was it some sort of animal? She thought of Sulu's description of the klee fish bite and hoped the occupant of her cell was more friendly than that.

"Hello?" she ventured quietly.

Cold and clammy fingers clutched at her leg.

Davies cried out and stepped back quickly.

"I'm sorry," a raspy voice said in Kibrian. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

There was something very familiar about that voice. "Who are you?" Davies asked, keeping well away, with her back pressed to the wall.

"Wait, wait." There was a stirring in the opposite corner of the small cell. "You have a translator… Davies?"

Davies swallowed. Although dry and cracked, the sound of that voice was unmistakable… unbelievable, but unmistakable. "Who are you?" she demanded again.

"Davies, is that you?" the other occupant of the cell asked hoarsely. "What are you doing here? Davies, please, please, tell me you have some of those blue pills."

"Tell me who you are," Davies repeated, refusing to believe her ears.

"Don't you recognise my voice?"

Davies shook her head stubbornly. "You can't be who I think you are."

The other person gave a giddy, delirious sounding laugh. "All right, tell me who I am."

"You sound like Chekov, but… but Chekov is dead," Davies stated, despite the growing evidence to the contrary.

"Yes, but he was a nicer fellow than you were giving him credit for, wasn't he?" the other person half-whispered. Whoever this was sounded badly dehydrated.

"Chekov?" She stepped forward uncertainly. "How can you be here?"

Her companion laughed weakly. "I was just asking myself the same question. Davies, please, do you have any of those blue pills?"

"No, I don't have any blue pills." Davies edged forward, wishing the slaves had been kind enough to take that damned sack off her head. "Johnson said you were dead."

"Johnson says lots of people are d-d-de…" The voice abruptly stuttered to a halt. It sounded as if the other person was taken with a violent fit of trembling.

"What's happening?" Davies didn't move closer for fear of stepping on him. "Are you all right?"

The sounds subsided after only a few seconds. "I'm… I'm… feeling a little ill," the other person admitted shakily.

Davies got down on her knees and moved close enough that she could feel the heat of the other person's body. Whoever this person was, he certainly smelled terrible. "Here, untie me."

"Just a moment… just a moment," the voice pleaded weakly. "Too dizzy… Please, Davies, please give me one of those blue pills."

"Listen to me, Pavel," Davies said firmly. "I don't have any pills with me. You've got to untie me now. I've got to get us out of here."

"Why do you hate me?" the other person asked plaintively, through chattering teeth. "Why do you make Sulu hate me?"

"You're talking rubbish," Davies replied gently, twisting her wrists in an effort to see if she could get herself free.

"What did you tell him that I did that night… that night at Ka-k-k-k…"

"It doesn't matter now," she soothed as another violent fit of trembling took the other person. Her bonds were beginning to loosen.

"It… it… it matters to me."

"I…" Davies broke off as tears began to form in her eyes. This had to be Chekov. Who else would know about the incident in Kahsheel's quarters? Who else would care? "Chekov, is it really you?"

"Wh-wh-what did you tell him?" the other person demanded, an irrational edge entering his voice.

"Here," she said, bending down towards him. "Just hold on to this sack and I'll pull myself out."

"No," the other person replied irritably. "Not until you… What did… what did you tell him?"

"Oh, for the love of Jesus, Chekov!" Davies closed her eyes in frustration. If she could get out of this place — which was doubtful — how was she going to get out with someone who seemed to be on the verge of going stark raving mad? "I didn't say… All right. Maybe I didn't make you look very good in my report. But you'd made me sound so… so forward to Sulu, I just… Well, I suppose I defended my virtue a little too vigorously. And I'm sorry," she added, meaning it. "Whoever you are, I'm sorry. Now, will you hold on to this?"

Cold, sweaty fingers gripped at the material near her shoulder.

"No, no… up, up…" she directed. "Good. Now hold on as tight as you can."

"Do I..? Do you think I..?" the person asked as she wriggled out of the sack backwards. "Does it seem to you that I like aggressive women?"

"What are you going on about?" Davies asked, shaking free of the bag at last. A little glow was seeping into the cell from beneath the door but there wasn't enough light to make out anything more than the rough shape of the person.

"Sulu said…" he rattled on in the earnest manner of a feverish child. "He told me… He said I like aggressive women."

"You love aggressive women," she assured him. "Now shut up for a minute."

There were footsteps outside the door and the sounds of a violent disagreement. The door burst open and lamplight flooded the tiny chamber.

"…crack brain ideas!" Mras was yelling at someone. "Do I have to take doing everything myself? Get her out of here!"

Davies glanced anxiously at Chekov as two guards approached her, but the figure next to her was not even human. The man lying on the floor was a brown-skinned Kibree with short, dark hair and a beard. He weakly put a hand up to shield his face from view as the guards dragged her away.

"Who are you?" she cried, before the door slammed between them.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

The dwarf remained in the cell with his captive. He set his lamp down near the door then walked over to where the man was lying and prodded him with his foot. "How do you fare?"

"Mras…" His prisoner groaned and doubled over in agony. "I'm going to die…"

"The dwarf grinned. "That shouldn't bother you, Feddie."

The man curled at his feet didn't seem to take any notice of how he was being addressed. "Please…"

The dwarf took a flask from his pocket and knelt. Putting an arm around his prisoner's shoulders, he lifted the other man up to a half-seated position and put the flask to his lips. The man tried to pull away at first, but then, realising what he was being offered, took the flask from the dwarf's hands and drank greedily.

"Clear your head a little?" the dwarf asked, sitting back on his heels.

His captive slowly lowered the flask and blinked at him. "Mras? Mras, do you have any…"

The dwarf pulled a tarry lump out of his tunic. "Peeva? Is that what you want?"

Chekov swallowed resolutely. "Blue pills."

Mras chuckled. "Poor Feddie," he said, breaking off a corner of the lump with his teeth. "Still afraid the kibbie-eyed one will take stick to you? Here, just a little chew to give you ease."

Chekov found he couldn't make his mouth stay shut when the dwarf held the bit of peeva out to him.

"That's better." Mras patted the ensign on the head as he slowly chewed the morsel. "Answer my questions, like a good slag, and you'll have the rest."

Chekov closed his eyes as warmth and life flowed back into his body. After a few moments, he put the flask to his lips again and drained the rest of the fruit juice. The dwarf was sitting on his heels watching him.

Mras grinned. "Gall's balls, Feddie, but you make an ugly Kibbie."

It took Chekov an unreasonably long time to figure out what was wrong with what the dwarf was saying. "Mras…" he protested at last.

"Don't trouble yourself to make denial, Feddie," the Kibree interrupted. "I know who you are. I took knowledge of you from the first. 'Mee-rras', the dwarf mimicked the ensign's distinctive pronunciation of his name. "No one else makes speech as you do."

Chekov shook his head slowly. This was too much to sort through as quickly as he knew he needed to. "Then why..?"

"Why didn't I tell the others who you were?" The dwarf shrugged. "They don't need to know everything."

Chekov kept silent. He still wasn't sure this wasn't just another hallucination.

The little man reached out and touched the ensign's swollen cheeks and nose and heavy eyelids curiously. "To die and come back as a Kibbie… That's a good trick, Feddie."

"It would have been a better one to come back as a Kibbie who wasn't addicted to peeva," Chekov said, rubbing his head.

"Why did you come here, Feddie?" Mras asked. "Did you truly come here to join us?"

"I came here to talk to you."

"Mmmmmm." It didn't look as if this answer entirely pleased the dwarf. "I didn't think you were saying true. I gave order for you to place the firebricks as a testing of you."

"Then why did you denounce me before I even had a chance to leave?"

"Because the more I thought, the more I knew you would fail my testing." Mras smiled grimly. "You were always a fool for the curly red one's form when she lived. Her taking dead might not make a difference. She has taken dead, eh, Feddie?"

Chekov sighed. "As far as I know."

"Too bad. She would have paid good ransom for you."

Chekov shook his head as the dwarf's unfailing avarice. "How did you get out of her quarters after I left you there?"

Mras shrugged. "Nard takes knowledge of me."

The ensign thought he sensed a little uneasiness in the dwarf's explanation then thought of a reason why it might be there. "You were working for Kahsheel, weren't you?"

"I took hand of jewels off curly red if she offered," Mras admitted remorselessly.

"To 'take sight' of me?"

The dwarf nodded. "I took pay from others too — station manager, station director, kiani who take more knowledge of you than you of them…"

Although he'd known for a long time what a heartless creature the little Kibree could be, Chekov couldn't help feeling betrayed. "Why?"

"Some wanted you dead, some wanted you alive. All wanted to know how you fared — and who else was interested in taking sight of you."

"No, I mean, why did you do it?"

"For the jewels, Feddie. I had use for jewels."

Chekov frowned, remembering the explosives and arms he'd seen. "I think there's more here than you and the others could scrounge or steal. There's a kiani financing at least part of your revolution, isn't there?"

Mras nodded approvingly. "For a stupid Feddie, you can make good use of your brains sometimes."

"But who would do such a thing, and why?"

"You don't need to know everything, Feddie." The dwarf smiled and chuckled to himself. "And neither does she."

"She?" A light went on inside the ensign's brain. "You're working for the Station Director, aren't you, Mras? But you plan to double cross her somehow."

"Take ease, Feddie," the dwarf advised, pulling the plug of peeva out of his pocket. "You always make speech at just the moment you should take quiet."

"No, I don't want that," Chekov said, contradicting what his body was telling him.

"You will." The dwarf laid the peeva beside the ensign, then placed two more lumps on top of it.

Chekov had to close his eyes and clench his fists to resist the urge to down it all at once. "If I took so much, it would kill me," he choked, speaking more to himself than to the dwarf.

"No," the dwarf said, rising. "It will just make sure that you do or say anything I tell you to."

"Mras, you can't go through with this plan to blow up the station…"

The dwarf shrugged as he crossed to the door. "There's nothing else for me."

Chekov nodded, trying to concentrate on this, rather than the peeva beside him. "Because you tried to kill Gebain? Assaulting a member of a higher caste must be a serious offence…"

The dwarf smiled as he rapped out a signal for the guards to open the door for him. "The punishment for it is quicker and a little less painful than what they do to runaway slags who try to impersonate kiani."

"Mras," the ensign called out desperately as the door opened only a dwarf-sized crack. "Think of the lives at stake…"

"I might give thought to that," Mras conceded as he passed through. "But you… You'll give thought only to peeva, eh?"

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

"Driant, you're making a big mistake."

The Kibree ushered his servants out through the door with impatient hand gestures then glanced back at Sulu.

"The information I've given you is useless," Sulu told him, hoping that the loss of one plank from his raft would make the kiani think again.

"For a moment, I was inclined to question my orders concerning you, but now…" Driant curled his lip contemptuously. "Goodbye, Lieutenant."

The executioner put a hand on Sulu's arm — as if the Lieutenant could move away. He raised the hypo and pushed up the sleeve of Sulu's Star Fleet tunic.

"Listen." Sulu's heart was pounding in his throat. "I'll… I don't know how much he's paying you, but I'll double it."

"I have no need of jewels," the executioner stated categorically.

The needle slid unfelt under Sulu's skin, but the contents of the hypo were painfully cold.

Sulu stared at his arm disbelievingly. He felt more upset than frightened. His mission… his team… if he managed to talk this guy around… if the medikit was accessible somewhere…

The Kibree backed away, watchful.

Sulu felt little ripples of dizziness stirring inside him. "If you let me go… If you help me get to my people… maybe we could work something out."

The executioner shook his head.

"Who gave the order to kill me?" Sulu demanded. "For God's sake, have the decency to tell me that. Who decided they wanted me dead, and why?"

The Kibree maintained his silence. After a long moment he replaced the hypodermic into a small case and turned away.

"Please," Sulu begged, not for himself but for the others whose lives he held in his hands… as he'd held Chekov's.

The executioner opened the door and hesitated, as if waiting to verify that his poison had taken effect. A wave of giddiness surged over Sulu and he didn't actually see the Kibree leave. A moment later, he became aware that he was sitting with his fists clenched and his eyes shut, the dizzy sensation momentarily under control.

"Dammit!" It occurred to him that he had failed by every standard he could imagine. He'd failed his captain, his team and his friend — everyone who had depended on him. He'd failed them by kow-towing to the vilest regime imaginable in the name of the Prime Directive. Kirk would have found some way around it. As Chekov had said, the very fact of them being here twisted everything, every motivation, made the people around them vulnerable, made the team themselves vulnerable.

'It doesn't do any good for me to get angry,' Sulu told himself. Or to cry tears that he couldn't even wipe away because his wrists were still bound. The only thing that would help was to think of a way out…

Unfortunately there wasn't one. If his team — what was left of it — survived, it would be by their own efforts. He was afraid, afraid that he was going to die before he made sure that Davies and Johnson at least would survive this posting.

"Your officers have been detained by the Director. She means to accuse them of a plot to destroy the station. Ensign Johnson was heard to issue threats. They are in custody…"

"In custody?" Sulu jumped, bound though he was, at this sudden interruption to his misery. He opened his eyes to find that Selrideen — that apparition of ill omen — had invaded his cell.

"…And will die when the Station is destroyed. Driant and his cohorts intend that you shall die too, or be already dead, in a manner that implicates the servants or certain kiani…"

"Do you mean that Driant knows about Mras' plans? And if he does, why doesn't he do something to stop him?"

"Servants are…" The Kibree sighed. "It is easy to be sentimental about them, but the fact is that they will betray each other for as little as a kind word. Anyone could have told him… if indeed he does know."

Sulu shook his head impatiently. "Are you saying he knows, or he doesn't?"

"Either is possible," the Kibree replied. "It is also true that Kahsheel did not achieve the cleansing death she planned."

"Because she wasn't able to get Chekov to drink enough poison to die immediately. He lived long enough to talk to me.." Sulu felt very sick. "…and Johnson. That makes the two of us loose ends. Is that what you're trying to tell me? The progressive faction decided to pump me for information then kill me and they'll try to do the same thing to Johnson?"

The Kibree spread his hands. "It is possible."

Sulu shook his head as his vision narrowed down to a tunnel framed in dark, hazy grey. "But killing Federation officers, or letting the station be destroyed is disastrous for pro-Federation interests."

"Depending on how such incidents are framed," Selrideen pointed out, "and where the blame is ultimately placed. Such incidents could quite probably force a change in leadership. You realise the current leadership is not pro-Federation, of course."

"I've gotten that impression," Sulu admitted, swallowing his growing nausea. He realised only his bonds were keeping him from sliding out of the chair. "But frankly, this sort of thing could make the Federation say to hell with this planet."

"Some believe that if the Federation can be convinced that the under castes are dangerous, they will react with an injection of technology to improve standards of living and make the underprivileged less dissatisfied with their lot."

"Well, they're dead wrong," Sulu replied bleakly. He was beginning to feel oddly resigned to dying here, powerless to intervene in the awful succession of disasters hanging over the Station. "As someone who's read all the socio-economic reports on Kibria, I can tell you the odds on the Federation reacting that way in this situation are about a million to one against. Someone — or some people — is about to make a terrible, terrible mistake."

Selrideen settled down cross-legged onto the floor. "The situation is out of control. My grasp of events and people is failing. This is beyond what I know."

The dream-peddler sounded sincere, as far as Sulu could judge. His brain seemed to clear fractionally. "Look, I don't know who you are, or what you're trying to do, but my officers haven't done anything to anyone. They're innocent of any involvement in your world. The Federation is too big, too dispassionate, to be swayed by the deaths of a handful of its officers. You seem to know things, to be able to get things done. Please, before Mras blows up the station, get my people out."

"I cannot."

"Why not? All you need to do is fabricate an excuse to get them out of the building…

"I have no power. Only knowledge, often more a burden than a blessing. With some I have influence. With my servants. The Director is not one of them, nor is Mras. I hoped to reach Mras through Chekov, but… You're alien. I overlooked that somehow. A kiani in Chekov's place, stripped of dignity, of possessions and family, would have been mine. He only mistrusted me. As you do. I am powerless where there is no faith."

Sulu ignored the mystic's meanderings. "Please…"

"Perhaps it is just that you should die now. How can I know whether you are fit to live?"

"My officers…"

"You think they deserve mercy? Why? There are kiani in this station who honour the spirit of our law and deal compassionately with the unfortunates in their care… that was the origin of the caste system, you realise. A method of providing protection and employment for those who would otherwise have perished in a harsh and unforgiving world. Then we discovered the pleasure of owning souls. It became necessary to broaden the scope of the servant caste, so that there might be something there worth owning. That was our mistake. Must I somehow go among all the kiani and sort out the good from the evil?" The dream peddler looked severely at Sulu. "Tell me, how will posterity judge your own record as a slave-owning kiani? Do you know our scripture: 'Kideo is surrounded by stars as a just and kindly Kibree is worshipped by his children and his servants.'?"

The lieutenant found he couldn't meet the other man's eyes. "I know I let Chekov down."

"So, if I can save one soul in this station, should it be Miss Davies? If two, do I include Mister Johnson, or should I remember the kindnesses of cooks and the compassion of engineers?"

The two sat in silence for nearly a minute.

"Selrideen…"

"You are right. All are Selrideen's servants and all must be saved." The Kibree leaned forward and began untying Sulu's ankles. "I must go about my work. For as our scriptures also say: 'Servants left to light a fire will singe their hair.'"

Sulu worked his feet, ready to stand and run. "The poison…"

"Poison?" The mystic turned and looked down at the lieutenant with Olympian calm.

"Driant sent someone with a… He injected me with…"

"And where does everyone get their poisons?" Selrideen asked rhetorically, moving on to Sulu's wrists. "That was a slow one. It won't kill you for a few hours yet. If you trust me and do what I require, you will live." He put out a hand to steady Sulu as he stood. "Do you trust me?"

"You mean you have an antidote?"

"An antidote?" The dream-peddler shook his head. "The antidote is worse than the poison. You should only take it from someone you trust. Is there anyone here you trust? Anyone at all?"

Sulu thought of all the Kibree he'd dealt with. He didn't understand them or their hidden agendas. Then he realised that Selrideen was referring to something else entirely. Did he trust Davies? His heart seemed to stop as he considered that question. He liked her a great deal, but trust? If he believed her, he had to disbelieve Chekov, or at least their respective interpretations of what had happened between them. No, he didn't completely trust Angharad, he decided — not without regret but not in anger. He believed she cared for him. He just didn't know what that might lead her to do. Did he trust Johnson? He didn't like him… But he felt that the meteorologist was all that was left to him.

"Yeah," he answered firmly. "There is."

Selrideen nodded. "Good. I'm glad you've realised that. Here…" He held out a minute ceramic sphere. "This is the antidote. It combines three elements, two of which you have encountered before: kepir and peeva. The third is known only to me. Accept it only from someone you trust, and only when you have done what I require."

"And what's that?" Sulu demanded, watching the mystic slip the little container back into his robe.

Selrideen stood up. "Follow your heart."

As Sulu watched, the Kibree's hand emerged from the dark blue fabric of his robe and opened to release a pair of fluttering pastel-coloured moths as large as sparrows.

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

The Medical Officer paused and took a deep breath. "Do you know anything about the political history of Kibria?"

Johnson nodded. "I've scanned several of the available tapes. I'm afraid I might not be able to recall all the pertinent names and dates…"

The Kibree held up a hand. "It is sufficient that you know that before we implemented our present system, this area was ruled by a royal family."

"Yes." Johnson paged through his mental notebook. "The revolution occurred during the Fifth dynasty of the House of…"

The Kibree cut him off with an impatient gesture. "Our current station director is of that ancient line," he informed the ensign weightily.

'Interesting, but not immediately relevant,' Johnson thought, but instead said, "So, she's following in the family business?"

"Yes. And unfortunately, it seems that particular family has taken some… less than ethical steps to see that administration remains a viable career path for family members. As you know, Kibrian children take a multifaceted test called the Vaytha. It seems that our Director — as well as many, many other members of her family — did not take all parts of the Vaytha. Her family controls the local testing committee. She did not take parts of the test where there was a possibility that she might fail."

Johnson nodded slowly. "And now she's being blackmailed?"

"And through her, her entire family, many of whom hold positions of power. Their exposure would result in a scandal of such proportion that it would cause great instability throughout this entire region."

"Who are the blackmailers?"

"Someone within the Rinegeld conglomerate."

"An energy resource company?" Johnson guessed, remembering the hints the Kibree had dropped in an earlier conversation.

"Yes. Datvin only recently became aware of this situation. However, already he has enough evidence to force the Director's resignation. He hoped to do this quietly…"

"…After we Federation representatives had gone?"

"Yes. However, if she is linked with this attempt to destroy the station, her immediate removal would be assured, making things a good deal easier on certain other members of her family. We think the blackmailers have direct evidence only for the falsification of the Director's own Vaytha results, whatever they may suspect about the rest."

"Doctor," Johnson began uneasily.

"No," the Kibree cut him off firmly. "You need not give me any further information. Datvin is completely capable of gathering the necessary evidence himself."

Johnson hesitated on the verge of telling the Kibree that the Federation was investigating not one but possibly two separate plans to blow up the station. The part of his mind that Star Fleet owned told him that he'd said more than enough. He'd put the local authorities into action; anything further was interference. As the doctor said, Datvin had his own sources.

"How can you be so sure about what Datvin knows and what he will do?" he asked instead.

The Medical Officer blinked in surprise. "It isn't obvious to you?" he asked, then smiled. "I begin to forget you're an alien, Johnson, and we must all look as alike to you as you do to us. Datvin is my grandmother's brother's eldest son by his legal wife. In addition to being his colleague, I am bound to him by certain traditional obligations and responsibilities of kinship."

"Oh," the meteorologist said, embarrassed to confirm that other than being different shapes, sizes and colours, Kibrians did look a lot alike to him.

"Johnson." The Kibrian drew closer and lowered his voice. "Another reason I came to speak to you is that I am attempting to make arrangements to see that there is a problem at the Alareen Relay Station that requires your attention."

Alareen was a small facility to the west. "You're trying to get me off the station?"

"Temporarily."

"I really appreciate the offer, but I've got to stay…"

"Ensign," the Kibree interrupted, "your life is in danger. When the political climate stabilises, you will be free to return. But for the moment, you must trust my judgement."

For a moment, Johnson's vocal chords were paralysed at the thought of abandoning Sulu, Davies and Chekov — who were all more than equally endangered. "But I…"

"No arguments." The Medical Officer put his finger to his lips as he rose and quickly backed to the door. "I'm sure you will be allowed to attend the dinner tonight. If my plan has not already taken effect, you will have an opportunity to see me again there."

"But…"

The door closed, then immediately reopened to admit Johnson's ever-faithful guards.

'Oh, God,' Johnson thought silently burying his face in his hands. 'If nothing changes before dinner, there's no use having a plan."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-

Chekov wasn't sure how much time was passing. It might have only been minutes since the dwarf's departure. It felt like years. As Mras had predicted, all he could think about was the three lumps of peeva.

He was holding one of them in his hand now. He'd waited what seemed like a very long time without touching any of them. And now he'd held this piece of peeva for a very, very, very long time without eating any of it.

"I don't want it," he whispered to himself, holding the piece tightly in his hand and letting his mouth brush against it. "I don't want it. I don't want it."

When he licked his lips, he could taste peeva on them. He wanted this stuff so badly, it almost killed him to pull the piece away from his mouth.

"If I can figure out a way of calculating the passage of time," he told himself, "then I can develop a system of rationing…"

That seemed simple enough. What was a good interval? Thirty minutes. How many seconds in thirty minutes? One thousand, eight hundred. Fine. So he could have a little now…

Chekov's hand shook as he broke off a minuscule flake with his fingernail and laid it on his tongue.

"One… two…" he began, letting his head fall back against the hard stone wall as the warm glow enveloped him. "…tree… cheteeri… vorsim… djevitch…"

The hand holding the peeva had already begun to wander back towards his mouth when the ensign heard a muffled thud outside the door of his cell.

He put his hand over the lumps of peeva protectively as the door creaked and a figure entered.

Chekov's eyes couldn't adjust quickly enough to make out any details of the figure as it swiftly bore down on him.

"Are you truly a servant of Selrideen?" A familiar-sounding voice asked, as the visitor grabbed him by the shirtfront.

"Yes," Chekov replied without hesitation, since this was obviously the correct answer.

Without any further elaboration, the figure pulled him to his feet and hustled him out of the door. The ensign's eyes closed against the relative brightness of the corridor, but this didn't last for long. The figure swiftly herded him into a dark, winding passageway.

At first the ensign's main concern was that he was able to maintain his grasp on all three of his lumps of peeva, but slowly it dawned on him that a very good — although rather puzzling — thing was happening. Someone seemed to be helping him to escape.

They travelled along in darkness and silence for an indeterminable length of time. Chekov's rescuer seemed completely sure of himself, never hesitating as he swiftly guided the ensign along the maze of tunnels.

Even before they turned onto a passageway filled by murky sunlight escaping through a partially open doorway at the top of a stairway, the ensign had identified his companion.

"This is as much as I can do," said the tall servant who spoke without slave caste dialect, stopping at the foot of the stairs. "I will be missed, and your escape will not go unnoticed for long. Tell Selrideen that the time has changed and to beware the funeral. He will know what I mean."

"But…" The servant had turned and disappeared into the shadows before Chekov had time to frame a response.

"Well… Thank you," the ensign said quietly to the direction the Kibree had left in.

He cautiously climbed the steps, trying to minimise any creaking and let his eyes adjust slowly to the light.

The half-opened door opened into a small courtyard. Chekov blinked in the sunlight. The courtyard was completely surrounded by walls. It looked like a herb garden of some sort. There were several doors, but all of them were shut.

Chekov looked at the peeva he was holding and wondered if he shouldn't find somewhere to bury it. It gave him a terrible pain in his chest to even consider doing such a thing, but he knew he couldn't very well walk around the station carrying handfuls of peeva.

He'd spotted a secluded corner and was moving towards it when someone called out from behind. "Hey, aren't you supposed to be in here?"

"N-n-no," he said, quickly putting his free hand on the first door knob he came to. "I was going this way."

He opened the door and stepped inside…

…Only to find himself standing about seven paces away from Gebain.

The major domo was half-reclining in a wheeled chair. Two of his assistants stood by him consulting a large piece of parchment. They all looked up at the new arrival.

Chekov swallowed, sending his heart far enough back down his throat to allow him to say, "Excuse me."

"It's all right," Gebain called, gesturing him inward. "You can come through here, sir."

"No," Chekov smiled as he backed out. "No, thank you."

He closed the door and found the cook was still watching him.

The ensign smiled and shrugged as he backed quickly away. "Wrong door."

He was only a few steps away from the next door when Gebain's door reopened.

"Hey, sir!" One of Gebain's assistants pursued him with long, purposeful strides. "Could you come here a minute. Gebain wishes to speak to you."

"I'd love to," Chekov said, without slackening his pace towards the next portal, "but I am really in a hurry. Maybe some other…"

The door was locked.

"This will only take a minute," Gebain's assistant assured him as his big hands landed on the ensign's shoulders. "This way, please."

'Oh, God,' Chekov groaned inwardly. It was possible, if fate was not being incredibly vicious, that he had not been recognised and Gebain and his men were just curious as to what a strangely dressed Kibree was doing in a place where he had no business being. The ensign hoped with all his might this was true as he carefully put his hands into his pockets and emptied them. Nonetheless, he entered the doorway about as cheerfully as he would have walked through the gates of hell.

"Forgive me for not standing," Gebain apologised, "but I've had an injury."

Gebain's assistant closed the door behind him, with what sounded to the ensign's ears a most ominous thud. Chekov found that he was in one of the storerooms off the kitchen. The table and benches that were usually here had been moved aside for the major domo's chair. The door to the main kitchen was open. Low castes passed by doing work normally done by servants.

Based on his experience with Mras, the ensign decided that the less he said, the longer his true identity might remain a mystery. Instead of answering, he merely nodded and made an acknowledging noise. "Mmmm."

The major domo said nothing for a long moment as he carefully looked him up and down. "I thought you might be one of the technicians who drew kitchen duty for the kepir hunt meal, but I don't seem to recognise you."

"Mmm." Chekov shook his head. So far, so good.

"You're new at this station?"

"Mmmm." It was surprisingly hard to remember to look at Gebain's face instead of at the floor. It was so much more comfortable to look at the floor. One couldn't look into the floor's eyes and see its brain going tick, tick, tick…

"What were you doing in the garden?"

"Lost m'way," Chekov answered in the lowest, most indistinct voice he could manage.

"Oh." For some ungodly reason, the major domo's eyes seemed to settle on Chekov's pocket. "I see you've had an accident too."

The ensign held his breath as he looked down, expecting to find that the peeva was somehow visible.

"I mean your hand."

The synthetic skin… But, no. Chekov frowned. It was still in place. There was no sign of the brand it covered.

"Did you burn it?"

Looking at both his hands, Chekov could see the problem. While the back of his left hand was covered with fine dark hairs, the back of the right one was smooth, bare and slightly discoloured because of its synthetic coating. "Yes."

"Oh."

Another agonising moment of silent observation passed. Chekov swallowed, willing his heart to beat a little more softly. It had to be audible even from where Gebain was sitting.

"Where did you want to go?"

Chekov pointed back the way he had come.

"It's easier to get into the main corridor this way." The major domo gestured to the door behind him.

Taking that as a dismissal, Chekov nodded his thanks and walked towards the door that went out through the kitchen. He certainly knew his way back to his quarters from there. All he had to do now was just… get… past… Gebain… Don't look down. Don't do anything suspicious… Only inches to go…

"Come back here, Chekov," Gebain said quietly.

The ensign willed himself not to have heard and kept moving.

"Ijzo."

There was no use pretending he hadn't heard that. Chekov bolted.

He didn't get too far. He wasn't sure how many low castes it took to knock him down and drag him back to Gebain It felt like several hundred. In the kitchen at this time, Gebain had sympathisers to spare, while Chekov had none.

The major domo had obtained a knife from somewhere.

"Mols, Hrith, Ijzo, bring him back here," he ordered. "The rest of you, back to your assignments. Hsit, close the door behind you."

As the number of people holding him diminished, the ensign redoubled his struggles. It was to no avail. Gebain's three remaining stooges held him more securely than the mass had.

"Give me his hand."

Gebain's assistants forced Chekov down to his knees in front of the wheeled chair for their master's convenience. The big, blue-skinned Kibree took a firm grip on the ensign's right hand.

"I hope I'm not making a mistake." Gebain smiled as he applied the knife's tip. "I'd certainly owe someone a very big apology."

Chekov tried desperately to pull away — more as a physical reaction than as a reasoned plan.

"Hold still," the Kibree cautioned as he began to scrape away the synthetic skin. "I'd feel terrible if I were to accidentally cut it off."

It took an obscenely short time for the S and U of Sulu's name to re-emerge. That was all the proof the Kibree needed. A free person would not have a branded hand at all and there were no similar-looking letters in the Kibrian alphabet.

Gebain smiled at Chekov. "Somehow I had the feeling you weren't dead."

The ensign certainly wished he was at that moment. He struggled vainly against the hands holding him.

"You're certainly being uncharacteristically quiet," Gebain observed.

"I have nothing to say to you," Chekov spat back.

"We'll see." Gebain folded his hands over his bandaged midsection. "Ijzo, is there any rope in here?"

"I'll get some, sir."

"Ijzo," he stopped his assistant at the door. "No one needs to know about this miracle yet. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"I had to defy doctor's orders to come here," Gebain told the ensign. "I was beginning to think that I had overreacted. My staff has things well under control. As you well know, much of the preparation for this meal took place last night and this morning. And although this crew of low-castes are not experienced, they work better than double their number in servants. However, you have single-handedly made my trip down here worthwhile."

"I demand you take me to Lieutenant Sulu," Chekov said, despite the fact that his life was beginning to pass before his eyes.

"You're in no position to be making demands," Gebain informed him as Ijzo returned. "Do you know what the penalty is for impersonating a member of a higher caste?"

Chekov swallowed hard. "Then take me to the security office."

"I have an agreement with the security office," the Kibree replied. "Any servants that I send there go with their confessions already in hand."

Chekov threw himself violently backwards in one last desperate attempt to break free, but Gebain's men didn't lose their grip. Two of them wrestled him to the floor and held him there while Ijzo tied his hands. The Kibree looped the other end of the rope over a rafter. After warning his colleagues away, he then used it to haul the ensign to his feet.

"Not too high," Gebain cautioned, stopping his assistant when Chekov's wrists were suspended only slightly above the ensign's head. "No need to make him too uncomfortable… at first."

The major domo wheeled his chair over so that he was facing Chekov.

The ensign tried to get his breathing back under control. Just being tied up was something of a relief. For a moment, he'd thought they were going to hang him.

Gebain looked at his assistants and then nodded towards Chekov's chest.

"It feels strange to have other people do my dirty work for me," he told the ensign as his assistants tore the filthy shirt off Chekov's back. "It makes me feel like a kiani."

On the other hand, Chekov decided a quick death might be preferable to what the Kibree had in mind for him.

"Mister Gebain," he said reasonably, since a change in tactics certainly couldn't hurt the situation. "As far as a confession goes…"

"Yes?" Gebain said generously.

Chekov stood up as straight as he could. "No coercive techniques are necessary. I readily admit that I have broken certain restrictions placed on me. And I am prepared to pay whatever penalty I must. However…"

"Your guilt is self-evident," Gebain interrupted him. "I'm more interested in your accomplices."

Chekov's mouth went dry. "Accomplices?"

Gebain nodded. "You didn't accomplish your death and resurrection by yourself. I want to hear what parts your friends played… Your friends like Mras and Kahsheel and Mister Johnson and perhaps even your master."

"Mister Sulu had no part in this," Chekov replied resolutely. "And Kahsheel is dead."

"What about Mras and Johnson?"

Chekov shrugged. "There's nothing to tell."

"We'll see." Gebain motioned to one of the men behind him.

"Wait! I'll talk!" Chekov said quickly, before they could carry out whatever the major domo had in mind.

The Kibree nodded. "Good."

"But only in front of the Station Manager and the Station Director," the ensign stipulated firmly. "And only if Mister Sulu is present."

The big Kibree sighed and shook his head. "After all the time I've devoted to you, you still have no idea of your place, do you, Chekov? You have no idea how things work at this station and how little control you have over them. You will be speaking in front of those people. I am sure you will be speaking to all of them… eventually. But first…" Gebain gestured to his assistants. "You're going to have a long serious talk with me."

-o- -o-o-o- -o-