"Aeyo, take watch!" one of the slaves warned, then giggled as Davies blindly collided with a wall. Her captors seemed to be playing a kind of game with her. Rather than conducting her straightforwardly to wherever they intended to incarcerate her, a larger than necessary number of hands pushed her along. Unseen strangers laughed as she stumbled sightlessly or headed her off when she went the wrong way. Occasionally there were gasps of tension and relief as she avoided some obstacle she wasn't even aware of. With her hands still tied behind her and the sack placed back over her head, she couldn't resist effectively. If she attempted to stop her uneven progress, she was shoved. Davies began to have the feeling this piece of skylarking might be a prelude to something worse.

"Take leave of her, you slags!" The dwarf's voice boomed in the underground chamber. "Has too much peeva pickled your brains? These be firebricks, maggot heads!"

Davies felt a muscular hand on her arm, pulling her like a dumb animal through a space that suddenly seemed empty of people. She fought to control the trembling in her limbs, not wanting whoever had hold of her to know how badly frightened she was. It sounded as if the person leading her was walking with a stick. Eventually she tripped over something soft and tumbled onto a heap of sacks that gave under her weight, crackling and rustling. The hand slid up to her neck.

"You scared, Day-Veez?"

"I wasn't…" Davies cleared her throat and started again, calmly this time. "I wasn't sure what they were going to do to me…"

"Make fun with you, like kiani." Even if she hadn't already recognised his voice, Davies knew she would have been able to identify Mras from the rancid smell of his breath. "As the kiani liked to play with the lookly Feddie… What name did he take calling?"

"Chekov," Davies replied shortly. Now that she didn't have to concentrate on keeping her footing, troublesome questions flooded her mind. Who had been the man she'd been confined with? Mras had just referred to Chekov in the past tense. But she could have sworn… the person in the cell with her had certainly sounded like Chekov. As little faith as she had in Johnson, she had to accept that officers didn't become qualified paramedics if they couldn't use a tricorder to tell the difference between live and dead humans. It was far more likely that Johnson had been correct. The substitution of an impostor was an attempt to confuse her, frighten her or loosen her tongue. She couldn't imagine what end the slaves could have in mind for such tactics. Presumably she hadn't been meant to see her fellow prisoner at all. As for his knowledge of her history with Chekov, the slave culture seemed to live on gossip and its exploitation — and this was leaving aside Chekov's tendency to talk too much even when he was sober. Presumably at some point the ensign had told someone among the servants about her behaviour… And his relationship with Sulu was obviously a favourite subject for speculation.

"Not so much fun on the other side, is it, girl-Feddie?" Mras said unsympathetically.

"I never…"

"…Never took wanting to play mistress to a certain slave boy?" the dwarf finished for her.

Davies swallowed. These slaves seemed to know everything. "I didn't mean that… I wouldn't do anything to hurt Chekov. It was just a… a joke."

"Like the joke those slags were making with you?" Mras asked pointedly. "Good joking it was, but I didn't take sight of you laughing, Day-Veez."

Davies was very glad the dwarf couldn't see her face. "Okay, I take your point. It wasn't funny. None of this is funny. Please let me go, Mras. I won't tell anyone what you're doing down here. I'm not allowed to. Did Chekov ever tell you about that? About the way we're not allowed to get involved with internal affairs… I mean, we're not allowed to mix in Kibrian business?"

The dwarf grunted. "The Prime Feddie Cowardice Law?"

Well, Davies reflected, that was one way of looking at it. "For the same reason I'm not allowed to help you, I won't say anything that could hurt you. Do you understand?"

"I take understanding of no help," the dwarf replied belligerently.

"I'd like to be able to help you, Mras. I'd really like to be able to do something about this whole miserable situation. This is so unjust."

"You'd like to help us?" The dwarf managed to sound at once cynical and hopeful, like a child who still wanted the presents although he was too old for Father Christmas.

"I can't. Well, I can't do anything but let the kiani know that we do things a different way and that everyone's much happier when everyone's free."

"Day-Veez." He took hold of her arm again. "I will let you go. I will let you go and give warning to the kibbie-eyed one, and the one with milk skin and water eyes. And you must make no speech to any others about what we slags do here, huh?"

"Okay. I've already said I…"

"And you must take property of me."

"What?" Davies hoped her translator was malfunctioning.

"You must take me as your slag, Day-Veez," the dwarf repeated firmly.

"I… I… I can't do that," Davies spluttered, horrified. "Why would you want me to do that?"

"Because Gebain will kill me."

"Well, I understand that, but I don't see how I could do anything to stop him even if I were to… to own you. As I understand it, if you commit a crime, you have to pay for it. Lieutenant Sulu wasn't even able to keep Chekov from being…"

"No, no, no," the dwarf interrupted, then muttered, "Stupid girl-Feddie."

"What?" Davies decided that although she disapproved strongly of the Kibrian system of slavery, she preferred the manners the slaves displayed in the station.

"I will stay hidden here until your ship comes," the dwarf explained. "Your ship that comes to take you to your sky-palace. Then you take me with you."

"Mras…"

"I will be your slave always," he continued coaxingly, rubbing her arm. "I will fetch things before you take knowing you want them. I will watch in the kitchens to make sure you have the best food. I'll bring the sweetest flowers to your bedchambers…"

"Mras…" Davies felt this was uncomfortably close to a proposal of a different sort. "We don't have slaves. We just don't. And my captain, the director of my ship…"

"I take knowledge of what a captain is."

"Well, anyway, he wouldn't let me take you aboard. We have very strict rules about that sort of thing. People belong on their own worlds…"

"Belong!" the little man howled, startling her. "I don't belong anywhere. I belong to no one. No one takes property of Mras. When you leave me here, girl-Feddie, I will die and my body will be thrown out to the scavengers. No one will carry it away and care for it."

"Mras," she said, in what she hoped was a comforting tone. "I know it isn't fair. I know how horrible this is, but I can't do anything. Not for you, not for anyone else. I'm sorry."

"No, Day-Veez, you're not sorry." The dwarf's voice was low and deadly. "Not yet."

She tried to pull away from him, but the bag obscuring her vision and the rope binding her hands were too much of a handicap. He pushed her backwards into the sacks and sat on her knees. She struggled as he began to tie her ankles together. When she tried to sit up, he hit her in the stomach with his elbow and called her something long and unprintable in a language that sounded much more like Russian than Kibrian. The translator relayed his message faithfully. The epithet had obviously been originally directed at a man. Under other circumstances, she might have been amused by this evidence of cultural cross-fertilisation.

"You'll be sorry, Day-Veez," Mras promised grimly as he tightened the knots around her ankles. "You'll be sorry when all the other Feddies are dead. I will tell your captain that you made sport with Chekov. I will tell the kibbie-eyed one before he dies that you wanted the lookly Feddie for yourself. I will tell everyone what a worthless uzhist you are — after they've paid me my reward for saving you from the fire. You will be disgraced. You will have to take poison and die like the curly red one."

How, Davies thought as she gritted her teeth and tried to pull free, could you change a society when even its victims couldn't conceive of a different way of doing things?

"You will be truly sorry then, Day-Veez," the dwarf repeated confidently as he rolled off of her.

"There won't be any reward, Mras!" Davies countered — then stopped herself dead. There was no guarantee what the dwarf and his cohorts would do to her if their ransom plan was aborted. Too late now, she decided, the cat was already out of the bag. "I can't help you, or be used to help you, but you can help yourself."

"That's what I'm doing, stupid girl-Feddie," Mras replied as he pushed her over onto her side and checked the ropes around her wrists. "Giving help to myself."

"If…" Davies stopped and took a breath. It was hard to sound composed and reasonable when one was being treated like a sack of potatoes. "I don't know if this is the case, but if someone among the kiani is helping you to do this, because they want to injure or kill us — those of us from the Federation, I mean then I suggest you come with me to the Director and tell her who it is."

The dwarf made a derisive noise through his nose as he wrapped an additional set of ropes around her wrists. "Of what use is that?"

"If the station is destroyed, and any more of us are killed, it's likely that the Federation will abandon this project. That means that there'll be less pressure on Kibria to change, no example of another way to do things. I'm not saying that you'll get instant results, but you'll get something."

The dwarf made a noise like a laugh and let his hand travel down her thigh. "Maybe you'll get something, Day-Veez…"

She rolled away from him. "What's going to happen after you've blown up the station? Do you have somewhere to go and hide for the rest of your life? Has the kiani who's paying you to do this offered to protect you?" When he didn't answer, she pressed, "Can you trust this person? Will a kiani keep a promise to a slave?"

"The kiani are all of one piece," he replied harshly. "All worthless. They offer jewels and then there are none. They offer protection, but their backs are turned when Gebain is at work. They take no knowledge of Gebain's ways. The lookly Feddie learned that, didn't he, Day-Veez?"

Davies swallowed, knowing the conversation was once more heading out of her control. "Well…"

"The Feddies are as the kiani," he accused, shoving her contemptuously with one foot. "The kibbie-eyed one gave no protection to his own favourite against Gebain. You made humour of scanning him your bedslag. You are no more than a filthy, maggot-hearted kiani, Day-Veez. You'll give me no protection."

"Mras…"

"When station burns, I will burn," the dwarf decided bitterly. "No more lying. No more beating. No more…" His words choked off into silence.

"Mras," Davies said, wishing she could see his face. "You can die anytime. You can only come with me to the Director and put a stop to this now. I'll do everything I can to protect you. I'll… I'll take property of you, if you think that's the only way. And if that happens, I promise Gebain will have to fight me to get near you. Please… If I can't make it any better for you now, we can at least keep the doors open for the future. The Federation will gradually make things better. Please." She waited for some reaction to her proposal, either from the dwarf or his followers. Making an impassioned plea from inside a dirty sack didn't, she knew, lend much weight to her arguments.

"You Feddies love to talk." It sounded like the dwarf was getting up to leave.

"Wait, wait!" she said desperately. "If you don't trust me, then so be it, but at least tell me what's going on. Tell me which kiani is behind the plot to blow up the station. I'll… I'll pay you for the information."

The dwarf stopped. "You have jewels, Day-Veez?"

"In my quarters. You're welcome to them if you can get in to get them."

"Where?"

"In my wash bag… By the basin in the bathroom. Do you know where I mean?"

"Yes." The dwarf hobbled away from her. "Nith!" he yelled. Immediately, footsteps echoed down the passageway towards them. "Take the girl-Feddie to the place where the morts bed down," Mras ordered the silent newcomer. "See that no one touches her, even those grease-fingered morts. But if I have not given summons for her when the hour comes, have them take her to the safe place."

"Immediately, Brother Mras," the newcomer, Nith — a man with a deep, cultivated sounding voice — replied.

"Mras!" Davies protested as Nith's large hands closed around her waist. "What about our bargain?" The dwarf laughed derisively. "Stupid girl-Feddie. You made speech of the hiding place of your jewels too soon. Now I take them and I don't have to tell you."

"Mras!" The newcomer paused in his assigned task. "Brother, if we do not shun the degenerate ways of the kiani, we become no better than they are."

The dwarf laughed again, no more kindly. "Nith one time was kiani," he explained to Davies, "and thought himself above slags. When they cast him out, he became a slag who takes to thinking himself better than kiani."

"Are you any better than the kiani, Mras?" Davies asked acidly. "Or is it all right for you to lie to me, to play jokes on me? Treat me like the kianis did Chekov?"

There was silence for a moment then an irritated snort. "What use have you for this knowledge, Day-Veez?"

"I want to know," Davies replied stubbornly, although it did seem a little crazy to offer to pay so much for information she wouldn't be able to use until it was much too late. The dwarf fell silent again. In Davies' imagination he was squirming guiltily under the accusing eyes of the upright Nith — to whom she had taken an immediate liking.

"If the kibbie-eyed one learns the kiani plan to blame him for the trouble," Mras began slowly, "or maybe to kill him, will he take no action and suffer — as he did with the lookly Feddie — or will he take action?"

"It's not as easy as that," Davies replied, equally hesitant. "We still have to respect Kibrian rights and customs. That's why Sulu didn't make as much fuss about Chekov as he would have liked to, but… well, yes, if we're under attack we can defend ourselves. I suppose that includes indirect attacks and actions against us specifically that would harm other people."

"So, if the kibbie-eyed one learns of our plans here, he will take action against us?"

"I honestly don't know what he'll do," Davies admitted reluctantly. "Mras, if you hate the kiani so much, why are you collaborating with them? Why help them?"

The dwarf chuckled. "I don't help them, Day-Veez. They offer me an easy life — another promise not to be kept. They give firebricks and jewels to wreck this station, kill the Feddies and frighten other Feddies away — but that too is a promise not to be kept. The kiani are frighted to come to the tunnels and see what I do with their bricks and waiters."

"You're not supposed to kill the kiani then…"

"Slags .They want me to make dead slags and Feddies. They say to be making friends with the Feddies. Get a Feddie in the tunnels so when the stations falls it will look that the Feddies helped the servants rise up." He snorted. "They didn't reckon on so many wanting to make friends with the Feddies. And they made no thought that a slag might have plans of his own."

"So," Davies said, as coolly as she could. "The Federation would have withdrawn because its personnel weren't safe, the pro-Federation party would have thought again about our guarantee of non-interference and the extreme isolationists would have benefited from a favourable backlash of outrage when the Selrideen Station was wrecked. And exactly what are you planning to do instead, Mras?"

"Make dead kiani," he replied simply. Assuring herself that she had the green light, Davies pressed, "Who provided weapons for you? Which of the kiani?" Silence. "Mras, I offered you jewels if you would give me a name. That was our bargain."

"Girl-Feddie, you take no knowledge of this kiani," Mras protested, sounding annoyed.

"I'm paying for a name, Mras."

"Albrikk," he admitted at last. "The kiani's name is Albrikk."

Davies frowned. She had several personal favourites to fill the chief villain's spot, but this name hadn't even been on the scorecard. "Who is Albrikk?"

"You made bargain for a name, Day-Veez," the dwarf reminded her. "Take her, Nith."

"Wait! Wait!" she protested as the estimable Nith lifted her up and placed her over his shoulder.

"Take ease, lookly little girl-Feddie." Mras reached up and ran a lingering hand down her calf. "Whatever comes to pass, I will take sight of you and see you safe."

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

'Well', Johnson thought, as he continued to languish in the company of two remarkably boring Kibrian guards. 'So, the Medical Officer has some sort of plan…' That at least was evident. The only trouble was that it could be a plan to go out and buy up additional life insurance on key members of the station staff for all Johnson knew. He didn't think that Starfleet was going to be particularly impressed that one meteorologist had managed to scuttle off to a safe hiding place while the rest of the team were blown to bits. In fact, it might be advantageous just to sit tight here to avoid being the one who would inherit the unenviable task of explaining to Captain Kirk what had happened. If only they were in touch with the Enterprise, he could at least ask for advice… The thought of communications made a tiny light go on inside Johnson's brain. The Kibree, he knew, were at the awkward, in between stage of reaching for the stars. Their technology was sufficient to receive the babble of subspace communication around them, but they were as yet unable to respond. The communicators that the party had brought with them were useless once the Enterprise was outside the immediate system. However the Alareen Relay Station was the site of the most advanced Kibrian research into developing their own subspace broadcast capability. Once there, it was a virtual certainty that Johnson could call for help. He felt a tremor of disquiet at the thought of taking such a step without Sulu's permission. Johnson steadied himself, knowing that he had to accept that Sulu might be held prisoner — or worse, dead. It wasn't unlikely that Davies was in the same position, and Chekov would surely have been back by now if he hadn't got into some sort of trouble. If the ship were here, it would be able to pick its people out using the transporter wherever they were — alive or dead. Of course, he reflected, if he called for help now, they'd be back too late to thwart Mras' immediate plans, but at least any survivors would be rescued. Perhaps Federation assistance in the aftermath of the attack would help to minimise any political damage created by the outrage. Seeing that the alternative was to expire here at first moonset, helpless to save himself or any of his colleagues, Johnson didn't see how he could be blamed for doing what he could to survive. A few moments later, his resolve was put to the test. A tall, ginger-cookie coloured Kibree came in with a letter and his translator. Unfortunately, someone seemed to have been playing with the settings on the translator, so Johnson didn't realise he was being released until one of the guards unlocked the restraints around his wrists.

"Mister Johnson," the ginger Kibrian said, "ymrsisltsinsig…"

Smiling politely, Johnson took the translator from the Kibrian and readjusted it. "Could you say that again, please?"

"Mister Johnson, will you come with me?" As if he were still unsure that the translator was working, the Kibrian got up and gestured elaborately to the door. As much as he wanted to go through that door, Johnson forced himself to remain seated.

"First, I need to know where I am going and why."

"I am taking you to the Alareen Station, to assist our technicians with some computational problems in their subspace focusing."

Yes! Johnson cheered silently, his face immobile. The Medical Officer had had the same thoughts he had. He rose and followed the Kibrian into the corridor. "And, uhm, what time is it?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

"An hour before first moonset. We'll probably miss the traditional feast of the kepir… A great pity. It's a very old custom. I'm surprised that Madame Director feels this is so urgent that you need go now. Apparently none of the technicians are currently on duty. See…" The Kibrian held up the local equivalent of a key ring, a metal sphere from which master keys protruded like the spikes on a medieval mace. "Apparently I have to unlock the place for you."

The corridors of the Station were quite deserted as Johnson followed the stranger out into the grand front courtyard. The Kibrian ushered him into a small surface vehicle. "Where is everyone?" Johnson asked, belting himself into the slightly overlarge seat beside his guide, who was apparently also to be his driver.

"Preparing the kepir feast," the Kibrian replied. "You do know about our little custom of role reversal for the evening meal?"

"Yes, I've read about it," Johnson answered as the driver eased the vehicle into one of the sparsely used driving routes that ran in deep cuttings through the Kibrian city. They were spanned by high, arched bridges for foot traffic and helped to maintain the pre-technical atmosphere of the place.

"I think it's a charming custom… and it does so amuse the servants." His guide smiled and reached into a pocket. "Here, Mister Johnson. Have you tasted kepir?" Johnson accepted a nut from the Kibree rather like a child taking candy from someone who didn't quite qualify as a stranger.

"I've heard it has — side effects."

The driver laughed. "I'm not trying to seduce you, Mister Johnson."

He coloured. "I was told kepir was a potent aphrodisiac."

The Kibrian shrugged. "Kepir's potency depends on whether you depend on your intellect or your instincts to control your behaviour."

"But the slaves…"

"Exactly. The slaves are of inferior intellect and have little control of their behaviour even under the best of circumstances. Kepir only emphasises the beasts they are," his host replied with the matter of fact prejudice typical of his caste.

Johnson frowned, thinking about the sorts of things Chekov appeared to have done under the influence of kepir.

"And of course many of our servants take peeva," the Kibrian admitted grudgingly. "I'm told that particular combination of substances does have some significance pharmaceutically… I tend to think it's lack of character that sends them into rut. As for the effect of kepir on kiani… Well, it does make it easier for one to be a little more uninhibited, but I can honestly say I've never done anything that I didn't truly want to under the influence of kepir."

Johnson rubbed the kernel of the nut between his fingers so that he could smell the oil. It had a warm, almost peppery odour.

"The oil of the kepir is very sweet," his hose continued pleasantly, "and very wholesome. Many Kibree use it as a beauty aid or a body rub." Johnson wondered how much effect the kepir had really had on Chekov. Had the ensign just used it as an excuse to wind up in Sulu's bed? "Go on, Mister Johnson. Have a taste. You're in no danger of winding up in a passionate embrace with me…" The Kibrian glanced over at the kepir kernel in the meteorologist's left hand and smiled. "That is, unless you'd like to be in danger..?" The meteorologist found himself colouring again as he tucked the kepir into a compartment in his belt. "No, thank you. I think I'll just save it for later."

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

"Is there anything further you'd like to say to me now?"

Chekov made a zoologically improbable but grammatically correct suggestion in Kibrian. Gebain, who was less the student of language and culture than Angharad Davies, nonetheless smiled before nodding a signal to his assistant to give the ensign another stroke of the lash.

"You're learning our language very well, Chekov."

Chekov wasn't completely sure what it was they were using on him. This particular instrument of torture could double as a kitchen implement for all he knew. It was relatively thin and lightweight. It was also as flexible as rope. The most important quality by far, however, was that it hurt like hell when violently applied to bare skin — and quite a lot of that had been going on for quite a while now. "Thank you," he said, trying to shift his weight off his arms. This was growing more difficult since Gebain's assistants had readjusted the ropes tying him to the beam. The tension was now such that he could no longer stand with his heels on the floor. Each blow tended to knock him off balance. It was also getting rather hard to breath properly. "…For the compliment, that is."

Gebain waited. Chekov squeezed his eyes closed and willed himself not to do it this time. However, when he opened them, they wandered as if by their own volition to the three pieces of peeva lying on a shelf to Gebain's left. After Gebain's men had torn the ragged tunic the ensign was wearing, it was only a matter of time until the entire thing fell apart. The three precious lumps had escaped the pocket where he'd stored them and rolled to the floor.

"You want some, don't you?" Gebain asked tantalisingly. "I imagine you're beginning to want some peeva very badly."

Chekov said nothing and glanced instead at the Kibree standing at his right. This man's sole duty was to hold a cup of water and to douse the ensign with it when it looked like there was a chance he was about to pass out. It was beginning to feel like time for an encore of this sycophant's role in the drama. The major domo wheeled himself over to the shelf and took one piece down. Chekov bit his lip as the Kibree broke the peeva in half then broke the half in half again.

"I'll let you have this much," he said, holding the segment up, "if you'll tell me about Mras."

Chekov tried to look elsewhere, to think of anything else… but after a moment, his eyes were drawn back to the peeva.

"This could get you through the rest of this interrogation." Gebain sniffed the peeva delicately as if sampling the bouquet of a fine wine. "Although your answers wouldn't be as useful to me. I couldn't be sure if you were telling the truth or just saying what I wanted to hear. But I might be willing to deal with that if you give me Mras."

Chekov closed his mouth very tightly. He was no longer sure if he was refusing to cooperate out of obedience to the Non Interference Directive or just from the desire to defy Gebain. Either way, he'd decided he'd be damned before he gave anyone to the major domo.

"It was Mras that gave you this peeva, wasn't it?"

The ensign shrugged as best he was able. "I don't see what difference that makes." He gasped as Gebain's assistant delivered a stinging blow to the lower section of his back.

"I don't see why you're protecting him," Gebain retaliated, putting the peeva aside and rolling forward. "That deformed imbecile would betray you in a minute… and has upon several occasions. The only motivation that I can see is that you're in league with him." Chekov closed his eyes again. He recognised this as the beginning of an unpleasant pattern. First, Gebain would roll toward him, becoming increasingly agitated. "You are in league with him, aren't you? You're not at all displeased to see me in this chair, are you, slave?" The major domo drew the word out cruelly. "Except that you'd much rather see me lying dead, wouldn't you?" He paused and rolled closer. "Why else would you have assumed I'd been killed when I found you outside Kahsheel's quarters? You were in the tunnels with him, weren't you, Chekov? Before you went to poison Kahsheel… And don't think I don't know you murdered her…" The Kibree's voice went down to an acidic hiss. "Did you have sex with her before you killed her, maggot? Or did you wait and take pleasure from her corpse?"

Chekov squeezed his eyes shut. Despite his best efforts to ignore them, accusations like the last two stung almost as much as the lash.

Gebain rolled forward and grabbed the ensign by the throat. "You'd better tell me," he thundered. "You'd better tell me where he is, you murdering little maggot! Tell me where I can find Mras before I kill you with my bare hands!"

Chekov gritted his teeth and shook his head. As expected, Gebain didn't choke him to death. Instead, the major domo let go and rolled his chair backward. Chekov held his breath, his skin anticipating the blows to come. Sometimes there were as many as five. This time there were only three. Hard. In quick succession. Across the shoulders. The ensign couldn't tell if Gebain's assistant had bad aim or was just randomly varying the location he struck to keep the torture from getting boring. The ensign was still trying not to cry out, particularly from the blows he had warning were coming, but he wasn't having nearly as much success as he had at first. He found he couldn't do anything at all about the ragged sobbing noise his breathing made afterwards.

"Not so sharply, Ijzo," Gebain admonished his assistant, restored again to calm. "We're interrogating him. Not punishing. Not yet. We have to prolong this until we get results." In the interests of prolonging things, Gebain's other assistant dashed half his supply of water in the ensign's face. "You do realise that, don't you, Mister Chekov?" Gebain asked the last part mockingly in Standard. "This isn't your punishment. That's still to come."

Chekov shook himself, sending droplets of water everywhere. The tricky thing was to remember not to answer in Standard. That was a highly — and immediately — punishable offence.

Gebain picked up the peeva. "You know what happened to you the last time you were caught taking this. Multiply the punishment by the amount."

Chekov caught one of the rivulets of water running down his cheek on his tongue. The dehydration stage was well under way. That was a good sign. The tremors and delirium of peeva withdrawal couldn't be far behind. He couldn't be interrogated in that state… Or he wouldn't care so much, at least.

"And then there's the matter of your disguise… You do know what the punishment is for slaves who attempt to hide their brands and pass for free people, don't you?" The ensign shook his head as he straightened to relieve the weight on his arms and regain his footing.

The major domo smiled. "Castration."

"Well…" Chekov drew in a deep breath that was relatively even. "I'm not surprised."

"Because of the elegant way the punishment fits the crime?"

"No, because it's somewhat worse than anything I could possibly have anticipated."

Gebain almost laughed. "At last, you're beginning to understand what life is for a slave on Kibria. What you don't yet understand is that as guilty as you are, allowances can be made — if you cooperate. For instance, tell me about your friend Johnson. he helped you with your resurrection, didn't he? Helped you disguise yourself, correct?"

Chekov found himself staring at the broken piece of peeva.

"Your portion of the punishment is lessened if the blame for this is shared," Gebain promised. "I know you're not in this alone. Johnson helped you, didn't he? He was too close at hand when I caught you outside Kahsheel's quarters…"

"I must speak with Lieutenant Sulu," Chekov said, slowly and as clearly as he could. "This is an illegal proceeding. You must notify Mister Sulu…"

The door to the kitchens opened. "That would be impossible. Lieutenant Sulu is dead."

Gebain gaped at the newcomer. "Madame Director..!" Chekov twisted to get a better view as the tall, orange-skinned Kibrian strode into the room flanked by two low castes.

"Madame Director," Gebain began apologetically, "my men found this person…"

Chekov straightened as the director crossed to a position directly in front of him.

"I know who this is, Gebain," she said, looking unsmilingly into the ensign's eyes.

"Yes, ma'am. I was preparing to notify you…"

"Where's Lieutenant Sulu?" Chekov demanded.

"He's dead," the director repeated without emotion. "Which means that you are without a master and are therefore remanded to the custody of this Station. As is my prerogative as the highest official of the Station, I have decided to add you to my household… at least temporarily."

Chekov was too stunned to say anything for a moment. "You can't do that. I'm not…"

"Director," Gebain broke in over him. "This person has been involved in criminal activities. He should be taken to Security…"

The director turned on him coldly. "Are you suggesting that I am violating legal procedures, Gebain? Especially considering that, unlike you, I am legally within my rights as Station Director to detain and question persons suspected of crimes before turning them over to Security?"

"No, ma'am," Gebain said meekly.

"But you can't…" Chekov began, trying to come up with something they'd listen to. "I can't be… What proof do you have that Lieutenant Sulu is dead?"

The director crossed to the shelf where Gebain had laid the pieces of peeva. "Were these found on him?" she asked, picking them up.

"Yes, ma'am."

She put the unbroken pieces in her pocket.

"I don't believe you," Chekov said, as she turned towards him. "I don't believe Lieutenant Sulu is dead."

She gave him a long speculative look, then weighed out a large portion of the broken piece of peeva in her hand. "What you do or do not believe is of no consequence," she informed him as she moved toward him. "Open your mouth."

Chekov didn't trust himself to answer. However, he took some consolation in the fact that as weak as he was, he still was able to put up some resistance as the Kibrians' assistants held him in place and pried his jaws open. The director handed the dose of peeva to an underling. Chekov closed his eyes as he saw it coming to his mouth. They held his mouth and nose so he couldn't spit it back out again… but they might have saved themselves the trouble.

"Madame Director," Gebain began humbly.

"Next time, see to it that I am informed more promptly when a situation like this occurs," she told him as the world blurred into soft focus for Chekov.

"Yes, ma'am. Of course. Do you wish me to find a replacement for your part in this evening's meal?"

"No," she said, motioning her men away from Chekov. "That won't be necessary. I don't think this one is going to give me any more trouble, are you?"

Chekov cleared away some of the pastel fog suddenly clouding his brain by shaking his head. 'Too much,' he thought dimly. 'Too big a dose. Judgement severely impaired…'

"Are you?" the director repeated, lifting his chin up. The ensign wanted to look her in the eye, but found he couldn't. Everything was suddenly too bright, too complicated. "Come now," she said, giving his spinning head a shake. "I know you've been instructed on how to behave properly by Mister Gebain. You're going to be putting that instruction into practice now, aren't you?"

Chekov knew there was something he wanted to say to her. His mouth worked for a moment without any words coming out. "Yes, ma'am," she prompted. When she let his chin go, his head dropped and his eyes lowered comfortably to the level of her shoes.

"Yes, ma'am," he whispered obediently.

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

Sulu paused by Davies' door. Someone was inside and he had the strong feeling it wasn't Davies. He touched the lock and let the door swing open silently. The bathroom door was ajar. Someone was in there moving things. Someone that didn't sound like Davies. Sulu could hear the clink of ceramic. He padded silently across the outer chamber, then paused outside the bathroom door until he could roughly pinpoint the intruder's location. Taking a deep breath, he stepped in and lunged. The only problem was that the intruder was much smaller than he'd envisioned. Mras slipped under his arms and turned to confront him. A knife gleamed in the dwarf's hand.

"What are you doing here?" Sulu demanded, ignoring the threat of the weapon.

"What do you think I do here, Feddie?" the dwarf snarled. The little man didn't look too well. His colouring was off and he held one arm tightly against his side as if he was either hiding something or in terrible pain. Maybe both.

"Where's Davies?" Sulu picked himself up. "Did she send you here for something?"

The dwarf's face twisted into a grin. "You want Day-Veez, Kibbie-eye?"

Sulu took a step forward. "Where is she?"

The little Kibree backed up warily. He then seemed to take a moment to evaluate his situation. Seeing that Sulu wasn't intimidated by his knife, he made a great show of leaning back against a wall and using it to pick his teeth. "You without a bedslag now, Feddie?" he asked slyly.

"Look," Sulu said, levelling a warning finger at him. "If you know anything about Davies…"

"Oh, I take knowledge of Day-Veez," Mras assured him with a grin. "A right lookly little mort. Dwarfish for a Kibbie, but I take no minding of that…" The dwarf's leering manner made Sulu's blood run cold. It indicated that not only Davies, but all of the station dwellers were probably in serious trouble. Under normal circumstances, a person of Mras' caste could be flayed alive for speaking about someone of higher caste in such a tone. The little man had to be confident that a disruption of social norms was imminent to take such a chance. "With a ready tongue, also," the dwarf continued. "Take care, Kibbie-eye, or she'll scan you her bedslag, just as she did with the lookly Feddie…"

"Chekov?" The name was past his lips before the lieutenant could stop himself.

"She'll have you at her feet in gold chains like she had Kahsheel do with that one."

Bedslag. Gold chains. Sulu knew the dwarf was probably just saying these things to get a rise out of him. Unfortunately it was working. "I'm really surprised to see you here, Mras," he said, folding his arms and trying to bring his emotions back under control — visibly at least. "I was under the impression that you were in a great deal of trouble. Perhaps I should call Gebain's men to see if they…"

"You want Day-Veez, Feddie?" the dwarf asked, stepping between the lieutenant and what the little man had obviously forgotten was a temporarily non-functional communications panel.

"Do you have her?" Mras nodded. "What do you want?"

The Kibree surveyed the contents of Davies' room, then snorted contemptuously. "Nothing."

"I don't understand."

"You will," Mras assured him, crossing to Davies' bed. "I will give Day-Veez back to you when Station burns. She says you may not give aid or hindrance to the slags' plan — unless they make threats to make you dead. The kiani who gave the slags tools to make the Station burn wish you should take blame for this trouble. They wish that you Feddies will be sent away forever. I take no mind of what befalls Feddies. I only wish to take sight of Station burning at my feet. When I take sight of that, you will have your Day-Veez back — not before. If Station doesn't burn, you'll never take sight of the mort again."

Sulu stared blankly at the little Kibree, who in turn kept his rheumy eyes fixed on the lieutenant. "Let me get this straight," Sulu said slowly. "You intend to destroy this station, killing as many of the kiani as you can. And if I do nothing to interfere with this, you'll release Davies to me safely?"

"Yes." The dwarf's little eyes glittered with contempt. "Stand back and do nothing, Kibbie-eye — as your Feddie law tells you to."

Sulu shook his head. "I'm not sure I can do that."

Mras snorted. "You're right slidely at it. Let Station burn as you let them beat…"

"Leave Chekov out of this," Sulu ordered, a little more passionately than he intended.

The dwarf's lip was curled into a sneer. "I take no knowledge of why he had such fear of you."

"He wasn't afraid…" Suddenly there was a sound that made both of them freeze. From outside came the distinctive 'beep, beep, beep' of someone attempting to manually override the door's lock. Mras dove under the bed with surprising agility while Sulu quickly moved to the little combination safe behind Davies' workstation where her phaser should be. A panel slid back to reveal an empty compartment.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but we had to remove all offensive weapons from your team's quarters."

Sulu knew even before he turned that these cultured tones could only belong to the Station Manager.

Datvin calmly folded his hands behind his back as four armed guards swarmed in past him. "For security reasons."

Sulu sighed and let his hands drop to his sides as the Station Manager's men began a methodical search of the quarters. The lieutenant had known that something like this was likely to happen when he'd decided to make his way back to his team' quarters. Slapping his hand onto one electronic lock after another was almost equivalent to sticking a white tail on his backside and yelling to the dogs to come after him. However he had to ascertain his people's whereabouts. There had been no sign in either Johnson's or Sulu's own quarters that the ensigns had been dragged away against their wills. In the meteorologist's room he'd found the medical kit and Johnson's kit bag — both intact — neatly packed and propped next to the door as if in preparation for a hasty exodus. Sulu wasn't sure whether he was relieved or distressed not to find Chekov's body laid out there. Sooner or later he knew he'd discover what had been done with it. Despite the way it made Sulu feel, he knew that the final disposition of his friend's remains wasn't exactly a pressing issue in these circumstances.

The lieutenant held his breath as one of Datvin's men knelt down to search under Davies' bed. There was no telling what the dwarf would say or do when taken into custody. However, after a moment the guard moved away, giving no sign he'd seen anyone. Sulu tried to prevent any evidence of his surprise from showing on his face. Where could the dwarf have gone to? Was there a trap door hidden under that piece of furniture or a way of hiding inside the bed's under structure? Maybe that guard was a confederate of the little Kibree…

"Hmm." Datvin frowned as his men came up empty-handed. "I could have sworn you weren't alone, Lieutenant."

"Sometimes I like to talk to myself," Sulu replied easily as one of the guards patted him down. "Sometimes it helps me sort things out when I can't quite figure out what's going on… Like now, for instance. Am I under arrest, Datvin?"

"I wouldn't say that." The Station Manager made a slow circuit of the room, his eyes scanning for clues his underlings had missed.

"Protective custody?" Sulu guessed, as two of the guards took up positions flanking him.

"Let us say…" Datvin cautiously lifted the corner of the bedcover with his toe. "…that I need to discuss certain irregularities with you."

"Irregularities?" Sulu crossed his arms. "Such as my team's weapons being confiscated and my being placed under arrest?"

"Irregularities of that magnitude." Datvin let the coverlet fall back into place. "Yes… Natza, your uniform." Sulu felt his mouth go dry as the smallest of the four guards unhesitatingly began to unbutton his clothing.

"Wait a minute…" the lieutenant demanded, trying to keep a superior tone to his voice. "What's going on here? What do you think you're going to do to me, Datvin?"

"I think, Lieutenant," the Kibree replied, taking the guard's jacket and handing it to Sulu, "that I'm going to take you to dinner."

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

"Come on." When the alien hesitated at the threshold of the Station Director's living chamber, her chief housekeeper gave him a little push. "I can't say as I like having this little demon in your quarters, Director," the low caste complained, finally taking him by the arm and guiding him to a position in front of her employer.

"Is he giving you trouble, Modvag?" the Director asked, pointing to the low cushion where she wished her new acquisition to be placed. He was in a much more presentable condition than when she'd last seen him — washed and dressed in a fresh livery bearing her mark. Her staff had even managed to even out his unsightly haircut. Still, the Federation officer made into a less than attractive Kibrian. He seemed even more undersized than she'd remembered him.

"No, he's too far gone with the drug for that. Sit down." Despite her assurance, the housekeeper had to repeat her order and accompany it with a guiding hand on the creature's shoulder. "Sit down."

He moved stiffly and uncertainly — evidence perhaps of the punishment Gebain had inflicted on him or the bandages her underlings had put on his wounds. "I don't feel easy near the thing," Modvag said, frowning at her charge, "knowing of the glamour it cast on poor Engineer Kahsheel, causing her to take such leave of her wits and seeing the way it has risen from the dead and taken the form of a Kibree."

"Your superstitiousness only serves to remind me of the small remove between one of your caste and a servant, Modvag," the Director said coolly as she set the papers she'd been reading on the sofa beside her. "This young person may be from another planet, but he is quite mortal and, in this condition, quite harmless."

"Yes, Director… Stop that." The low caste reached down and slapped one of the alien's hands. "Sit still." They had placed a half-glove over the creature's right hand with the Director's insignia on it, as was the custom when there was a delay between the claiming and branding of a slave. His fingers had been worrying about the edges of the glove.

"Observe the beast in what should be its natural condition." The Director nodded with satisfaction as the alien obediently put his palms flat against his thighs. "Silent and compliant. I never particularly cared for this one. Always too ready to speak or act."

"Director, what should I do about Bolse?"

"Bolse?"

"The low caste who snuck away from the kitchen to inform us that Gebain had captured the thing… I mean, this one… He has asked to be transferred to your household."

"Do so, but watch him carefully. At the first sign of further treachery in his nature send him back to the kitchens, where I'm sure Mister Gebain will deal with him for us."

"Yes, ma'am. And what about this one?"

The Director watched as the alien's fingers slowly curled and uncurled — a sign that he was probably trying frantically to resist the drug in him, for all the good that could do him. "I haven't yet decided."

"Yes, ma'am," her housekeeper said, then added hesitantly, "I think one of the staff has obtained a small supply of kepir…"

"Don't be disgusting, Modvag," the Director interrupted her shortly. "My immediate plans for this one are to see that he attends the kepir hunt meal. If our elusive Mister Sulu is still alive, this one's presence will draw him out like fizhat draws poison from the sting of a jahhetah bug."

"Yes, ma'am."

"See that this one is watched carefully and that my guards are prepared to seize Lieutenant Sulu — or any of his supporters — and conduct him to my office, discretely and with as little disturbance as possible."

"Yes, ma'am. Does this mean that you have abandoned your plans to leave the Station after the meal and go visit your family in Kishbaz?"

The Director pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I will modify my itinerary as I need to. However, see that my things are packed and waiting in my car. This one may well be accompanying me."

"Yes, ma'am." The low caste reached down to slap Chekov's hands, which he had finally managed to curl into fists. "I told you to sit still… Director, will I be accompanying you?"

The Director looked up, trying to determine if the anxious undertone she'd heard in her subordinate's voice had been imagined or real. "Yes, I suppose so," she replied casually. "At any rate, I will not be attending Engineer Kahsheel's funeral. Considering the circumstances of her death, I think my attendance might send an inappropriate message."

"Yes, ma'am." The housekeeper shook the ensign's clenched fingers loose and flattened them against his legs again.

"Here, Modvag." The Director picked up a tablet and a writing implement. "Give him these. Chekov…"

"Answer her," the low caste prompted, shaking his shoulder.

"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled almost inaudibly as Modvag wrapped his right hand around the writing stick and placed the tablet on his knees.

"I want you to sign Lieutenant Sulu's name," the Director ordered. "Write Sulu's name. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The Kibrian and her assistant watched as he slowly transferred the stick from his right to his left hand and scrawled four letters. Modvag gave her employer a significant look as she returned the tablet.

The Director cleared her throat and pretended not to have noticed. "Their signatures are nothing alike," she said briskly. "Disappointing. That might have been most useful."

It looked like her housekeeper was having a hard time not saying something. "Well," the Director asked impatiently. "You have your orders, Modvag."

"Yes, Director. Come." She guided the ensign up by the shoulder of his livery. "About the kepir, ma'am…"

"Yes," her employer replied shortly. "It might be appropriate to have a small supply on hand… In honour of the day."

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

"Datvin, let me try one more time to make this clear to you," Sulu said quietly as he walked down an empty corridor at the Station Manager's side. A good deal of his disguise relied on the hope that people wouldn't give someone in a Security uniform with its cloth cap that partially obscured the wearer's face a second glance. Two real security guards walked behind him. A sharp-eyed observer would have noted that they were armed and the lieutenant was not. "Although I personally have no problem with this little palace coup you're planning to stage, officially there is no way in hell I can be involved."

"Your active participation may not be required, Lieutenant," Datvin replied. "Your mere presence as a silent witness will hopefully preclude any unseemly contradiction when I make my charges and will, I hope, prompt certain parties to come forward with information, motivated by fear of what you might say if you so choose."

"Look," Sulu said, struggling to keep up with the Kibrian's punishing pace. "My first responsibility is to my team…"

"I assure you that Mister Johnson is perfectly safe."

"And Ensign Davies…"

The corners of the Kibree's mouth turned down. "Unfortunately we are unsure of her present location."

"I've been told she's being held…"

"…By the low castes," Datvin finished for him without dropping a beat. "In the tunnels. Yes, that is a possibility. However, if that is the case and she is alive, locating her is a near impossibility."

Sulu slowed stubbornly to a halt. "I have a tricorder in my quarters — if you haven't confiscated that too. Since Davies is one of the very few humans on this planet, I could use it to find her, if she's still in the station."

The Kibrian frowned mightily as he turned. "Lieutenant, if my information is correct, every life on this station is in imminent danger. Each second you dawdle brings us all a step closer to destruction."

Sulu folded his arms. "None of which changes the fact that my orders specifically prohibit me from becoming involved in this planet's internal affairs."

Datvin's eyes narrowed. Sulu forced himself to remain unaffected by the Kibrian's withering gaze, which had been honed, no doubt, by generations' worth of experience in browbeating subordinates.

"Mister Sulu, let me now make this perfectly clear to you," he said, with a frightening variety of icy calm. "If you accompany me into the banquet hall, I will put a full squadron of my best men at your disposal to retrieve Ensign Davies. If you do not, I will personally see that every 'tricorder' or comparable scanning device on this Station is smashed to a billion pieces and I will have you and Ensign Johnson bound, gagged and thrown into the tunnels after her. That is, if I don't decide it's more expedient simply to have both of you shot."

When the guard behind him pressed a weapon to his back, Sulu moved slowly forward. In light of the Kibree's threats, the lieutenant decided he needed to take a little time to reconsider his position. His knowledge of Kibrian culture didn't prepare him to gauge how far the Station Manager might be willing to go in these extraordinary circumstances.

"Datvin," he began reasonably as they rounded a corner. Unfortunately the lieutenant had taken a moment too long to consider, for now he found himself in the hallway outside the great dining hall. The Station Manager gestured him to silence.

"Take charge of him," the Kibree quietly ordered his guards. "Lieutenant, I suggest you do nothing to draw attention to yourself. That could have unfortunate results for all involved."

Sulu glanced uneasily back at the guard's weapon, wondering if that meant the underlings' orders were to do away with anyone who happened to notice him. "Where will you be?"

"It is my privilege to serve tonight's main course," Datvin informed him, remaining at the door as the guards ushered the lieutenant into the hall. "Although I fear some won't find it to have a particularly sweet taste."

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