"The Lieutenant asked me to check on you."

Chekov straightened, jarred awake from a doze he didn't remember falling into. "Oh, Johnson," He cleared his throat, put his fingers on the computer's keyboard and guiltily checked to see that the glasses he'd disposed of an hour ago were gone. "I did not hear you come in."

Johnson crossed to stand behind him and peered over his shoulder at the viewscreen. "It would probably be quicker if you let the program assess the correspondence of those variables. Here, let me show you…"

Chekov switched the screen off. "I know how to do that, thank you."

"Right." There was a full two second delay before Johnson carefully added, "I didn't mean to imply that you didn't, Chekov."

Chekov rolled his eyes at the blank viewscreen and wondered what it must be like to go through life always considering all the possible options and outcomes before committing yourself to anything. Part of the answer came to him very easily. Johnson was, after all, still in possession of his liberty, his health, and the ability to sit down without wincing.

"Do you need anything?"

"No, thank you," Chekov said, trying to be civil, trying to remember that Johnson would be less irritating if Chekov himself were more than half awake or sober.

"Okay. Fine…"

Chekov waited for him to go, but Johnson just stood there — probably going through his long mental list of appropriate things to say and do.

"I'm a little concerned about the lieutenant."

Chekov turned to look directly at Johnson for the first time. "Why?"

"He's much more worried about this mission — the technical side of it — than he needs to be. It's pretty well under control. And I don't think he's handling this problem with you and the Kibree in the most effective fashion. He should…"

"Don't worry about Mister Sulu and the Kibree," Chekov interrupted dismissively. "I think he is half-Kibbie."

"Kibbie?"

"Yes," Chekov said, a devilish notion beginning to form in his mind. "It is an informal Kibrian term — like the word 'uzhist'. Have you ever heard that one?"

"Uzhist?" The meteorologist shook his head. "What does it mean?"

"I am not entirely sure," Chekov said, very innocently. "I think it is a very complimentary way to refer to a woman. I am sure if you asked one of the ladies who work in the control room, they would tell you."

Johnson practised the word silently a few times, then nodded as he headed for the door. "Well, I'll tell the lieutenant you're okay then."

"Yes, thank you." Chekov smiled, savouring the prospect of throwing at least a few moments of chaos into Johnson's carefully ordered existence. "And tell him I was immensely cheered by your visit."

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

"Are you going to SLEEP?"

"No, sir." Chekov forced his eyes very wide open. Gebain was keeping him waiting outside the entrance to the kitchens while the major domo discussed some matter with a low caste. Chekov decided to try staring straight forward as if he were at parade attention. When he kept his eyes on the ground like a proper Kibrian servant, it was too easy for them to fall completely closed.

Peeva and vodka had turned out to form a happy combination to recommend to insomniacs. After Johnson's departure, he'd gone back to his work with a renewed burst of effort, but his concentration soon began to slip. He'd tried taking short breaks from the increasingly obdurate equations, pacing around the room, or splashing his face with cold water. The beneficial effects of this strategy were short lived. After realising he'd spent twenty minutes staring at a blank screen, he gave up and went to lie down on the bed. He had slept until Johnson had returned and woken him up just in time to hurry him down to the kitchens.

All for nothing, Chekov thought, since it looked like Gebain was just going to have him stand in the hall for the whole hour and a half.

"What are you staring at?" Gebain called out irritably from across the hall.

Chekov sighed as he lowered his gaze correctly to the floor, knowing it would only be a matter of time before he'd be yelled at for dozing off again. "Nothing, Mister Gebain."

"Look at this one," Gebain invited the low caste. "He can't even stand still correctly."

Chekov was glad he wasn't looking up so he couldn't see the smirk that undoubtedly crossed the low caste's face.

"That will be all, Ijzo. See that everything's done according to my instructions."

"Yes, Gebain." The low caste gave a respectful bow and hurried away.

"All right, you. Come here." Gebain crooked his finger. "I've got something new for you to do this evening. I expect you'll appreciate that."

"Oh, God," Chekov exclaimed quietly in Standard, alarmed by the prospect of a new twist in his already hideous routine and by the ghastly smile on Gebain's face.

"I'm not exactly sure what that phrase means," Gebain replied in Kibrian, "but I'm beginning to find it offensive."

"Sorry." Chekov chewed on his lower lip. "Sir, this new assignment you spoke of…"

"Oh?" the major dome said with false generosity. "Do you wish to object to it?"

Chekov laughed nervously. "I didn't think I was allowed to have objections."

"You're not," Gebain confirmed, opening the kitchen door and ushering him in. The major domo kept one hand on his shoulder as he surveyed the room and bawled out, "Mras!"

The dwarf looked up from stacking dishes on the table. "Sir?"

"You and this one will be clearing drains today."

As usual, slag hall had gone a little quiet when Gebain spoke, but this announcement was followed by total silence then a burst of laughter and enthusiastic stamping. Chekov looked around in bewilderment. He accepted that he wasn't popular, but he didn't understand this universal approval for his misfortune. Perhaps they were just glad that he'd been chosen for the task, rather than themselves. But no, bizarrely, even Mras looked pleased.

"Take off that livery and get something old to wear," Gebain instructed.

Chekov blinked at the completely erroneous assumption that he kept a change of clothing secreted about his person. "Excuse me?"

"Come, Feddie." His old friend Dollu grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of harm's way before Gebain could take exception to his lack of understanding. "Don't make foolish speech."

Almost before he knew what was going on, someone was tugging his tunic off over his head. Something old, ragged, and frankly rather smelly was tossed on in its place.

"If you don't mind," he said, grabbing the trousers that the blue-skinned woman was swiftly loosening. "I would prefer to do that myself."

"Make speed, Feddie," Nula urged, handing him a pair of ragged bottoms to match his top.

This must be a special occasion, Chekov thought to himself, noting that this was the first time he'd ever been directly addressed by her. He took off his boots and handed them to the nameless blue-skinned woman. "Don't let anyone else touch these," he cautioned her.

She hugged them to her chest fiercely with a shy, gap-toothed smile.

He opened his mouth to request the small circle of women turn around for a moment. But then reflecting that the shirt they'd given him came almost to his knees and remembering that 'privacy' was a word that didn't exist in the slaggish vocabulary, he simply shrugged to himself and effected the change as quickly as possible.

"Su, Feddie," Dollu commented, as he retrieved his boots. "What white skin."

"And right stickish legs," Nula added critically. "He needs fattening."

"Thank you, ladies," he said, making his way past them.

Mras had made a similar transformation. Slag hall had gone back to work. The noise level was rising again, but there was an air of cheerful anticipation that made even the most dour and argumentative servants seem like happy children tidying their bedroom before Christmas.

"What is happening?" Chekov asked the dwarf in an undertone.

Mras just shook his head amiably as he led him out of the kitchen and into the underworld Kahsheel's servant, Nard, had introduced the ensign to the previous day.

Now that Chekov didn't need to worry about losing his footing while being tugged along on the end of a rope balancing a tray of food, he could take more note of his surroundings. The smooth walls of the upper floors had given way to rough stone blocks. A layer of unswept sand ground under their feet, piling up into small drifts along the walls. Contrary to his previous impression, the tunnels weren't damp, just cool.

"What is this?" Chekov paused to explore with his fingers the intricate carvings that appeared on the stonework they were now passing. His eyes were taken up to where the elegant stone vaulting of the roof vanished into shadow.

"Before the station, this was a Summer Palace. Up from here…" The dwarf thrust his finger toward the roof. "…is where rulers and their families bedded down. Now station directors and managers bed down there." The dwarf spread his hands and smiled ironically.

Chekov nodded. "Form of government doesn't really make much difference if you remain a slave."

"Slags bed down there, there, there." Mras pointed down various dark passages. "Mostly it be too cold and dark. We Kibbies used to be right fond of the cold and dark though."

The dwarf tugged at Chekov's sleeve. "Make speed, Feddie. It doesn't matter how long I take, but now that Gebain's had a taste of your hide, I think he's hungry for more."

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

As they continued on, Chekov stumbled after his guide in the increasing gloom. He stopped and blinked as Mras opened a door and brilliant white sunlight poured into the passageway. When his eyes adjusted, he could see that this wasn't the full brilliance of Kideo, but only so much as filtered through a loose canopy of leaves. The little postern opened into a garden — or orchard — densely planted with fruit trees on raised beds. Between the beds, water swirled in deep channels. Between earth and water were narrow, tiled paths. The place was cool. The running water was like music. Chekov couldn't imagine why the kiani never came here — or at least never shared it with their visitors.

Mras was peering up into the trees, fingering the flat shiny black fruits that peeped out of clusters of leaves. Like orange trees, there were flowers present too — brilliant yellow blossoms tinged at the centre with pink.

"I don't know how he can tell," the dwarf was saying, "but Gebain says they'll run tomorrow, and he always knows."

"What do we have to do?" Chekov knelt down and let his fingers trail in the water, thinking hopefully that clearing drains sounded a lot less arduous here than it had in the kitchen.

Mras scuffed at the litter of dried, leathery leaves which lay on the path at his feet. "The leaves block the drains, and the kepir can't get in."

"Kepir?"

"We'll have a kepir hunt tomorrow. You'll see. It's our day." The little man's face was full of defiant glee. "And after that…"

"Yes?" Chekov prompted, thinking that it sounded like Mras was anticipating something other than the usual outcome of some quaint local custom.

"That is not really any of your business," Mras said in a creditable imitation of the ensign from earlier in the day. "Is it, Feddie?"

Chekov frowned. Any subversive plans the lower classes might be contemplating were none of his business. As a representative of the Federation bound by the Prime Directive, it was his duty to not make them his business. That didn't stop him from burning with curiosity and desire to encourage and be a part of such plans.

Mras pulled a pair of rough gloves out of the front of his shirt and tossed them to his co-worker. He then retrieved another pair for himself. Chekov was again touched and a little puzzled by the way the dwarf looked out for him — took sight of him. He pulled the gloves on and let Mras direct him to where the stream of water disappeared under the old Palace buildings. The tough leaves were jammed into the grills, particularly at the surface where they floated on the water. Even wet, they had sharp edges. Chekov soon realised the sense behind the gloves as he acquired a half dozen skin-deep cuts on his lower arms. Mras seemed to be working more purposefully than usual as he scooped the piles of leaves around the trunks of the trees. Clearly this was purely a short term measure. The next strong wind or rainstorm would send them all back into the water channels again.

"Mras," Chekov asked, "you have not always been a slave, have you?"

"No, I used to be in the Colour Guard." The dwarf's tone was sarcastic and impatient, but not, as Chekov had feared, offended. "Until I stopped out in the rain too long one day."

The Colour Guard was a largely ceremonial force with a height requirement that made Chekov giddy just thinking about it.

Mras stopped work a moment later and sat back on the path. "When the other Feddies go, you'll leave too?"

"Yes." Chekov kept working. Unlike the slaves, if he had a clearly defined task to complete his instinct was to do it quickly, competently and thoroughly. It was that, as much as his alien origins, that caused resentment among the lazy and obstreperous inhabitants of the slag hall. He'd finished the first grill now and moved on to the next.

"And you won't be a slave any more?"

"No." Chekov stretched to clear the far side of the grill, submerging his arm up to the shoulder. The cold water was a delightful contrast to the unremitting dry heat of the day. "Although I will probably be in more trouble than I care to contemplate right now."

"With who?"

"My… uh…" Chekov couldn't think of the correct Kibrian word. "In Standard — Feddie speech — he's called a 'captain'. He's my leader… not a master, although he does oversee what I do… although I am not in any way a servant…"

"I know." Mras brushed aside his increasingly complicated attempt at an explanation. "Short, not stupid. Remember?"

"Yes, sorry."

The dwarf cocked his head on one side. "What will you do to the Kibbie-eyed one?"

"Mister Sulu?" Chekov shrugged. "Nothing. Why?"

"I'd give him soft belly full of dirty knife until he made squeals like a rutting…"

"That would not do either one of us much good," Chekov pointed out, choosing to skate over his companion's vicious notion of revenge.

The dwarf shook his head. "I take no understanding of you, Feddie. As morts say, you're like a vzisch."

"And what is that?"

"Little creature." The dwarf held his hands less than a foot apart. "Big eyes, shiny fur. Sometimes they're tame enough to sit on your shoulder. Then I've seen the same one near bite a nammie's arm off for looking at it wrong."

Chekov frowned. "Now I think I am the one not taking understanding of you. Surely I do not seem so temperamental."

"You take temper at everything and nothing, but this Kibbie-eyed one takes property of you, puts you in slag hall, has you beaten, keeps you in his room at night…"

"Mister Mras…" Chekov began to protest, then stopped himself. "No, I will not attempt another explanation. I have not been listened to in the past and I know I will not be listened to now. Believe what you will, then. Believe I am like this little creature with teeth, if you like. But, I will tell you that I have taken a temper or two with Mister Sulu in the past few days."

The dwarf grinned. "If you had that dirty knife in your hand, maybe you would have used it… then you'd be up for bid again."

Chekov took a long stride across the water channel to reach the next grill. He reflected ruefully that he was at least better off belonging to Sulu than one of the natives and that perhaps he should give Sulu that much credit.

"That curly red one would sell her own mother as a bedslag for the jewels to take property of you." Mras snorted. "You'd not spend your days stirring if that…"

"Please," Chekov interrupted before the dwarf's speculations on his life as the kiani's property took a more graphic turn. "I am very fond of Kahsheel. I would prefer you did not speak about her in that way."

Mras sneered knowingly. "What about the girl-Feddie? Day Veez? Are you and her 'fond' too?"

"She and I are co-workers… friends, perhaps. That's all."

"Oh, Feddie!" The dwarf laughed at him. "What you don't know!"

"What are you talking about?"

"At the yellow hour break I am helping carry chairs to the west wing. Day Veez is making speech with Curly Red in the hall. 'I wouldn't mind playing mistress to your slave boy,' she says…"

Chekov went cold inside. Mras was right, he wasn't stupid. He'd remembered what Davies had said, presumably heard via the translator that Davies, like Johnson, carried everywhere with her, and he'd parroted her very words in Standard. It was exactly what Davies would have said, even down to her slight off-English singsong. The dwarf must have a memory like a Vulcan.

Mras grinned and shook a finger at him. "You're taking a temper now."

"I do not find this at all humorous," Chekov warned him.

"It hurts to be thought of as a slag, doesn't it?" Mras asked, suddenly very serious. "To be treated like you're a thing, an animal, a piece of property instead of a person. It isn't fair. It isn't right, is it?"

"It certainly isn't," Chekov agreed, using more force than was strictly necessary to remove a fistful of leaves.

"It's not 'normally functioning' either, is it?"

Chekov felt quite inclined to agree, but decided to keep his own problems with the Prime Directive to himself.

"You could help us, Feddie," the dwarf said persuasively. "Just a little revenge, a little dirty knife…"

"What good could that possibly do you?"

"What good will anything do us?" Mras countered bitterly. "You know that things are about to improve around here? You been giving ear to the dream peddler?"

"I know…" Chekov began, but his experience on Kibria had corrupted his faith enough that he had to correct himself and say, "I mean, I believe that if I do something to try to make things better here, ultimately I will only be making things worse."

"What's that?" the dwarf demanded angrily. "Is that what you think? I'd kill myself if I believed that. What a stupid thing to believe."

Chekov really didn't have an answer for him. Despite all his Academy training to the contrary, the Prime Directive did seem like a pretty stupid set of rules at this moment.

Mras got up off his backside and looked at what Chekov had achieved. "You work fast. If we go back too soon, Gebain will think we haven't done it properly. Slow down."

There were six large grills in all and Chekov had all but cleared the fifth. Mras clambered past him to reach the last one. He thrust his hands deep into a log jam of leaves. There was a swirl of something in the water, a snap of teeth, and the Kibree pulled his arm back out with a low exclamation of pain. All the colour washed out of his face as if it were pouring out of his lacerated arm along with his bluish-red blood. The remaining parchment colour looked so awful that Chekov assumed the victim had gone into shock. He pulled his shirt off and, wishing it was cleaner, twisted it firmly around a twenty-centimetre long, bone deep bite. He held the arm up, trying to get Mras to his feet while he was still conscious. "You need a doctor, and I can't remember the way back…"

"Take ease, take ease," the dwarf wheezed painfully. "Give me take breath a moment. Aah. Give me help of taking rip of this here…" He tugged at his sodden sleeve.

Between Mras' dialect and his anguished breathlessness, Chekov was beginning to lose any sense of what the dwarf was saying. "You need a doctor," he repeated.

"No doctor for me." The dwarf laughed as Chekov half-walked, half-dragged him forward. "Doctors take no sight of slags unless kiree gives orders. I cop no owner. No one wants Mras. You cop chew, Feddie?"

After a blank moment, Chekov realised Mras was asking for something for the pain. "No, I'm sorry, but I don't have any peeva. I am not allowed, remember?"

The dwarf spat out something that sounded like a curse. "I'll take a stick to that Kibbie-eyed Feddie myself, if I live so long!"

"Try to conserve your strength," Chekov advised, struggling to get them both through the doorway.

The dwarf laughed giddily. "I copped your fate this time, Feddie."

"What?"

"That big mouth was there for you, Feddie." The little man's eyes were wild, but his meaning was unmistakable as he shook his bleeding arm in Chekov's face. "This was meant for you."

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

The primary thing that worried Mister Sulu when he returned to his quarters to shower and change before the evening meal and found a trail of bloody footsteps leading to his door was that he wasn't worried. He was beginning to resign himself to the fact that Chekov and the Kibree would generate one crisis after another until the whole mission was swallowed up in a final overwhelming cataclysm.

Chekov was sitting on the end of Sulu's bed constructing a sling out of what had once been Sulu's top sheet — before it had been offered a more rewarding career in surgical supplies — for a short, ugly, vaguely familiar-looking Kibrian servant. The servant tried to rise to his feet in response to Sulu's entrance. Chekov did not.

"That's not necessary," the ensign informed his patient, pushing him back down gently so he could continue his work.

Sulu folded his arms and frowned at the scattered contents of the medikit that shouldn't have been seen by Kibrian eyes, let alone been put on a Kibrian body. "Have we opened a sickbay?"

"Temporarily," Chekov answered testily.

"Okay, Chekov. Just tell me what happened and why you didn't take this guy to the station's Medical Officer."

"I did. He refused to treat him. There were no orders from anyone of consequence requesting treatment. Apparently a mere slave bleeding to death does not constitute enough of an emergency to inspire anyone to attempt a circumvention of their bureaucracy."

"Su, Feddie, take quiet," Chekov's companion warned him softly. "This one will have your hide for this."

"Listen, fellow, I am already in possession of much more of Mister Chekov's hide than I ever wanted in a lifetime," Sulu assured the dwarf as he sank down tiredly into a chair opposite the bed. "Okay, let me think about this."

Chekov frowned at him. "What do you mean, 'think about this'?"

Sulu gave a gesture that took in Mras and the medikit. "I don't have to tell you what's wrong with this picture, do I?"

"Wrong?" Immediately Sulu regretted his word choice. "I think I can point out a few things that are very wrong here, Mister Sulu…"

"Okay, okay. Just calm down for a minute, Chekov," Sulu requested firmly. "I'm not mad at you or anything."

"You will be," the ensign predicted.

"Huh?" Sulu asked, begging the fates that he'd misheard.

"I was rather rude to the medical officer," Chekov replied unrepentantly.

"Yeah." Sulu massaged the aching spot that had developed between his eyebrows with his thumb and his forefinger. "Well, that's just par for the course."

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. When Sulu called, "Come!" he was expecting Johnson or Davies. The grey-green Kibrian face which appeared around the door instead came as something of a surprise until Sulu recognised him as the station's Medical Officer, come to complain about Chekov, presumably. At least this meant he'd not gone directly to the Station Director with his grievance.

"Doctor…" Sulu rose, steeling himself for the worst. "Please allow me to apologise…"

Unexpectedly the doctor interrupted him by placing the back of his hand over his own mouth in the accepted Kibrian gesture for silence. "No, I've come to make my apologies."

There was a momentary stand-off. Sulu was both surprised and uncertain. Was the doctor worried that he hadn't taken sufficient care with the lieutenant's property, or…

The Medical Officer stepped past Sulu, as if the lieutenant didn't interest him much, to Chekov and his patient. He took Mras' arm from the ensign. His fingers hesitated over the neat dressing. "You cleaned this properly? What did you use?" He followed Chekov's pointing finger to the antiseptic spray — the ensign had decided not to use anything more sophisticated for fear of doing more harm than good. In the same spirit he'd closed the wounds with dermal suture pads rather than the attempting to accelerate regeneration of new tissue with all the technology available to him. The doctor's eyes lingered on the open medikit and its assorted miracles.

"No large blood vessels broken?"

"I don't think so."

"How much bleeding once you closed it?"

Chekov shook his head, ignorant of what was normal for a Kibree with fifteen or so inch-deep tooth marks on his arm. "It was bleeding, but not flowing."

The doctor turned his attention to Mras, brushing a palm over the dwarf's brow for temperature, perspiration, or some other indicator of health. "Can you move all your fingers?"

The dwarf obliged.

"If it begins to bleed excessively, or you experience fever, swelling or light-headedness, come to me straight away. Do you understand what I mean?"

"Of course he understands," Chekov retorted indignantly. "He may be short, but he's not stupid."

"Chekov," Sulu warned.

"Come to me just before the blue hour tomorrow, whatever the circumstances." The doctor returned his attention to Chekov. "You have medical training?"

"Only in first aid — not to treat Kibree." At the prompting sound of Sulu clearing his throat, Chekov reluctantly added, "…Sir."

"He was bitten by a klee fish. Where? In the kitchen?"

"Kepir orchard." Mras spoke for the first time since the doctor's arrival.

The doctor snorted — through disgust or disbelief, Sulu couldn't tell. He was inclined to the latter interpretation. Getting bitten by a fish in an orchard sounded unlikely, even for one of Chekov's exploits.

"Someone put it in there for you, Mras?"

"Maybe," the dwarf said to the floor. "Maybe it was there for the Feddie."

The doctor squinted thoughtfully, uniting his brows over his nose. He evidently dismissed the matter as of no further interest and came back to Sulu. "Your servant has done a very impressive job for someone with only rudimentary medical training. If you shared your medical technology with us, untold lives could surely be saved."

"Yes…"

"You object to our social structure, yet nearly seventy five percent of those classified as belonging to the slave caste suffer from avoidable genetic damage and birth injuries. Mras, for example, would have achieved normal stature if we had been able to synthesise growth hormone at that time. Adequate medical care would enable many more people to take a full part in our society."

"That would be treating the symptoms rather than the disease, though," Sulu pointed out. "Wouldn't it, Doctor?"

The Medical Officer gestured to the debris on the bed. "You seem to be treating symptoms here. Is this non-interference? Is this any different in principle?"

Sulu gave Chekov a dirty look. "It's a compromise. But there are some things we don't compromise."

The Kibree looked pointedly at Chekov. "That looks like a compromise."

"This is your world, Doctor. While we're here, we will abide by your rules."

"Well…" The Medical Officer dug into his pocket and pulled out a small box. "In the spirit of compromise… I hear your servant is having a problem with peeva addiction?"

"Yes."

The box opened to reveal thirty or so powder-blue pills. "These will help him deal with most of the more troubling symptoms. Give them to him — only one at a time — only when he needs them. It is very possible to also develop a dependence on this drug. Do you understand?"

"Uh.… Yes." Sulu was almost too surprised by this miracle of a helpful Kibree to say anything. "Thank you…"

The visitor nodded, straightened his robe and padded out, his slippered feet silent on the cold stone floor. Sulu watched without comment as Chekov cleared away the evidence of his first aid efforts. The dwarf stayed where he was, with his eyes fixed carefully on the floor.

"You have said several times that you think the creature was put in the orchard to injure me," Chekov said suddenly after several moments of quiet. "What do you mean by that, Mras? Who would have any motivation to harm me? Gebain?"

"It probably wouldn't be Gebain," Sulu said, crossing his arms.

"But he was the one who sent me to the orchard."

"Exactly. Because of that and his position as kitchen overseer, he is legally liable under their laws for any physical damage you may incur while under his control. He can punish you in all sorts of ways, but if you're damaged, he's in very hot water." Sulu pointed at Mras' arm. "If this had happened to you instead of this guy and I really wanted to push it, I could have everyone connected with you being in the kitchens fined — from the station manager down to whatever low caste you're working under. If I wanted to say you'd been permanently maimed, I could have Gebain's arm cut off, or maybe even have him reduced to being a slave. If you were killed doing something he ordered you to do, I could have him executed. The law doesn't protect the middle castes very well. So unless this Gebain guy hates you so much he'd be willing to risk his life and livelihood to get back at you, I don't think it's him."

"Hmm…" Chekov turned to his companion. "What do you think, Mras?"

The dwarf looked briefly up at the lieutenant, then frowned at Chekov.

"Mras?"

Sulu realised the dwarf was waiting for permission from him to speak. He didn't exactly feel comfortable giving it. Ordering Chekov around was bad enough, and at least the ensign could be assumed to have signed up for it along with the rest of the Star Fleet package. "Go ahead," he said informally.

"Don't think anything."

"Uh, Mister Sulu…" Chekov pointed towards the bathroom with his eyes. It took Sulu a few seconds to realise he was being cued to leave.

"Oh, right. I forgot there for a minute that I was one of the enemy too," the lieutenant said sarcastically. As he crossed away from them a thought hit him and he turned. "Chekov, maybe you should try one of those pills now."

"I'm fine. Nearly having your arm bitten off has a powerfully stimulating effect."

"Well, you've still got dinner to get through." Sulu had taken out his tricorder and was taking a reading from the pills. "I thought so. It's basically peeva, but a synthetic, delayed release form. A lot of the trouble you've been having has been due to taking a crudely refined organic drug. Hisfal was telling me how they concentrate it from the leaves of the original plant. The strength varies hugely. With these, you should just get a steady level that your system can adapt to." Sulu poured a glass of water, then stood over the ensign while he swallowed the dose. "Aren't you going to be in trouble for not being in the kitchen now?"

Mras glanced up at the window, presumably to gauge the angle of the sun. He shook his head.

"I haven't yet quite acquired the feudal habit of working at one tenth of my full capacity," Chekov suggested. "I think we're ahead of schedule."

"What were you doing in this orchard anyway?"

"Clearing drains." Chekov savoured Sulu's reaction. "And we'd just about finished, hadn't we?"

Mras nodded.

"Okay… well… Don't forget you're supposed to show up in Datvin's office sometime this evening."

"I won't."

"I guess I'll just go take my shower then…" Sulu hesitated with his hand on the door to the bathroom. He couldn't tell whether Chekov was annoyed with him or simply preoccupied, but the presence of the ugly little Kibree made it difficult to talk. "Uh, all that blood… in here and on the floor outside."

"I will see to it," Chekov replied impatiently, and then added very pointedly, "…sir."

Sulu closed the door and started to shoulder out of his clothes, keeping half an ear on the muted conversation outside. He couldn't catch the words but the tone was clear enough. Mras had said something vicious about him — illustrated with a suitable gesture in Sulu's mind's eye — and Chekov had laughed.

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

"Johnson, where's Ensign Davies?"

Angharad had stopped work a few minutes before Sulu. She'd stopped to smile at him and promise to meet him over dinner. Now there was no sign of her in the dining room. Worse, there was no sign of Chekov.

Johnson looked up from a much-thumbed copy of the Station computer system manual. "Um, I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I didn't see you come in. She asked me to give you her apologies, but the kiani lady, Kahsheel, invited her to a private dinner party in her quarters."

"Oh." Satisfaction that Angharad had immediately had some success in getting closer to Kahsheel warred with disappointment, but Sulu managed to squash his personal reaction to the ensign's absence. "And Chekov?"

Johnson had already buried his nose in the manual again. "He was asleep when I went to get him earlier, but he woke up pretty much okay, I think. The guy in charge of the servants told me he needed to allocate some of the serving staff to take care of the party…"

"And you volunteered Chekov?"

"No, sir." Johnson shook his head in puzzlement. "He more told me than asked me. I thought he must have already cleared it through you."

"Damn."

The ensign looked stricken. "I'm so sorry, sir."

"Never mind, Johnson. It's not your fault. I didn't want Chekov to spend any more time with Kahsheel, but if Davies is going to be there, I suppose things will be all right." Awkward as hell, he added to himself, but all right. "How's your side of things coming along?"

"I'm ahead of schedule, sir. The energy transfer rates are sorted out. What Mister Chekov did was…"

"A total mess?"

Johnson paused as if trying to find a way to confirm this tactfully. In the end he went for blunt honesty. "Yes, sir. Uh, I've been wondering if we're really gaining anything by having him do any work. I think I can…"

"He may be absolutely useless, but I think it's important that he feels like we still need him."

Johnson took a roll from a passing servant and said, "Thank you," loudly and conspicuously. He then nodded gravely as if taking on board a new viewpoint on a difficult problem. "Of course. I hadn't really looked at things like that. Sir, Ensign Chekov really isn't taking this very well."

Sulu tried not to be offended by the implication that this was something he hadn't already noticed for himself. "No. I'm not sure if I would either."

"Perhaps if you and I sat down with him and gave him a thorough briefing on Kibrian culture…"

The lieutenant tried not to smile. The idea did have some merit, though not in the way the meteorologist meant it. If Chekov continued to be unruly, making him sit through a lecture from Johnson would be a perfectly hellish punishment. "No offence, Ensign, but I think Mister Chekov is getting a great deal of first hand experience with Kibrian culture right now."

"I don't know, sir." Johnson rubbed a spot on his cheek that still looked red. "He's sure got some strange ideas about the language."

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

"Oh, marvellous!" Kahsheel nodded approvingly at the array of servants lined up for her inspection outside the door to her quarters.

"I'll need this one, this one and this one…" She tapped her choices on the chest as she worked her way down the line. "…This one… these two… this one…" She smiled as she came to the small, dark-haired servant at the end of the queue. "…And particularly this one," she said, caressing an un-Kibrian fair-skinned cheek that had gone rather pink. She turned and handed the major domo a small sack of jewels. "Gebain, you're a treasure!"

"Those you can have until morning, but this one…" Gebain reached out and putting his hand on top of the smallest servant's head, forced a brown-eyed gaze that had been travelling up Kahsheel's body towards her face back down correctly towards the floor. "…I'll be coming back for. He's got to be returned to his owner after a reasonable length of time."

"Of course. I understand," Kahsheel replied, then called over her shoulder, "Nard, take charge of these for me. Gebain, there is a minor matter I need to discuss with you."

"All right," Kahsheel's weasel-faced servant ordered as the kiani took the major domo a ways apart. "All you slags who were picked, take a step forward… Now, face right… Hey, you at the end! Pay attention!"

Chekov belatedly moved forward into the ranks of the chosen. He strained his ears but could not make out any of the conversation — of which he suspected he might be the subject — behind him.

"All right, move forward and inside… forward and inside.. forward and inside." Nard directed the servants passing him like a traffic cop. "Come on there, you at the end. Hurry it up."

Chekov followed the file of servants into Kahsheel's quarters which were in the final stages of being cleaned and decorated by some of her own small personal staff.

"Stop," Nard ordered. "Face front and hold your hands out."

Having been last to come in now made Chekov first in line for inspection.

"What's this?" Kahsheel's servant demanded, turning the ensign's hands over and pointing at the blue-black flecks under his fingernails.

"Blood, probably," Chekov replied.

"Well, they'll probably have to be scrubbed a little better than that, won't they?" Nard said caustically before moving down the line. "Pretty good… Fair… Hey! Did I tell you that you could put your hands down?"

Chekov brought his hands back up to waist level. "Sorry."

"That's 'Sorry, Sir',slag… And keep your eyes where they're supposed to be," Nard warned before continuing down the line. "Okay, good… Not good… Fair…"

A familiar fragrance swept into the room a moment before an umber-coloured hand closed over Chekov's and pulled him gently out of the ranks.

Kahsheel giggled as she led him by the hand through the entrance to her bed chamber. "What a little troublemaker you are!" she scolded, playfully tousling his hair. "Haven't you learned anything yet about acting like a proper servant?"

"I've learned I don't like it very much," he replied sourly as she began to undo the fastenings of his tunic. "At the risk of sounding incredibly naive, what am I doing here, Kahsheel?"

"Just what it looks like. I'm having a party and I requested a few extra servants to help me." She leaned close to his ear and whispered, "And yes, I did request you in particular, but that's a secret."

"Does Mister Sulu know that I am here?"

The kiani sighed impatiently. "He does by now and if he truly objects he can come and drag you back to the dining hall. But until that happens or until Gebain comes for you, you're mine. And I insist that you stop… fretting over what your precious Lieutenant Sulu may think."

He was in the midst of a rebuttal when she suddenly tilted his head up and looked at his eyes. "Speaking of things Sulu won't like…" She smiled as she shook her head and clicked her tongue. "I see you managed to get into the peeva again. Shame on you. Or did you just take it for those bruises? You're not in pain now, are you?"

Chekov blinked. His eyes had become increasingly light sensitive after he'd taken the blue pills. Apparently the refined drug shared peeva's more harmless side effects. "Actually…"

"Oh, you don't need to lie to me." She kissed him on the forehead. "I know you're intelligent enough to judge how much you need to take the edge off and I admire you for defying him. Sulu's treating you like you're a child."

In the face of this comment, it was a little awkward to admit his eyes were dilated because Sulu had forced him to take a different drug because he didn't think Chekov could get through dinner without breaking down. "Well…"

"Just the same, I'll give you a little something to take care of this before you leave." She kissed him on the eyelids. "I'd hate to give him an excuse for a repeat of this morning."

"Kahsheel, he didn't…"

"Please, don't defend him." Kahsheel abruptly moved away from him and towards one of the chamber's large closets. "I don't want to have that conversation again."

Chekov crossed his arms and sighed. Again, he wasn't being listened to. However Kahsheel was so beautiful he just couldn't seem to get angry with her. "Is that another order from my owner for the night?" he teased.

She looked back over her shoulder to see if her was serious, then tossed her red-gold hair imperiously. "Yes," she said, feigning petulance. "It is."

He came over to her and pushed the mass of curls aside so he could kiss her long slim neck. "Then I must obey," he murmured, giving loving attention to each vertebrae.

She only allowed herself to enjoy his efforts for a moment before she pulled away. "Oh, you're incorrigible!" she scolded lightly, laying something made of green cloth out on the bed. "Can't you see I've got a thousand things to do? Here, this is what I want you to put on. Do you like it?"

The outfit was a stylised version of the usual servant's livery. It was tailored to be a little more closely fitting than what he was wearing. The neck, front placket and cuffs were made of joined hexagons of olive green and gold and white material. At various places the outfit was cleverly decorated with braided strands of the same materials and bits of gold chain. It was a finely made garment, by planetary standards, but not the sort of thing Chekov had ever seen a free person wear. It also conspicuously lacked Sulu's cipher.

"It's very…" He folded his hands behind his back. "…Kibrian."

"Men never appreciate clothes," she sighed, sitting down at a small table with a mirror to retouch her hair. "Your Ensign Davies is going to be here for my party."

"Oh?" Chekov looked back at the fancy outfit laid out for him in the context of what Mras reported overhearing Davies say to Kahsheel. "Oh."

"It's very important to me that she has a very good time tonight."

"And so you have brought me here to serve…" The ornamental chains on one sleeve jingled as he picked it up between two fingers. "…as entertainment for her?"

Kahsheel's face in the mirror lost all its gaiety as she put her hair brush down.

"Don't be difficult," she said so quietly it almost seemed she was saying it to herself. "Tonight of all nights, don't be difficult."

There was something disturbing about her tone.

"Kahsheel?" Chekov crossed to her. "What's the matter? Why is tonight so important?"

The kiani tried to laugh and erase her sudden seriousness. "It's just because of the party. It's just that I want to impress Ensign Davies. I want her to like me, to trust me, to feel she can confide in me. Is that so strange?"

"You are trembling," he said, picking up her hand. "What is it, Kahsheel? What are you afraid of?"

She quickly rose and pulled away. "I'm afraid that if I dawdle here with you much longer, I'll be late for my own party."

As she headed for the door, Chekov thought of the fate Mras had suffered for being too close to him. "Is there something or someone threatening you, Kahsheel? Because of me?"

She paused at the doorway with her back to him. "What could you possibly do if there were?" she asked, very, very quietly.

He stepped close to her, and turned her around by the shoulders. "You might be surprised at the things I could and would do to protect you."

She smiled and put her arms around him. "That is certainly the thing I like most about you," she said, kissing him. "You always manage to surprise me."

"Kahsheel," he began seriously, but she silenced him with another lingering kiss.

"See the effect you have on me?" she scolded playfully as she pulled away. "Didn't I tell you that I have a thousand things to do? It's a good thing I don't own you. I'd never get anything done. Now go wash your hands and face then get into that nice outfit I got for you."

"Kahsheel…"

"No, I'm not listening to another word," she insisted, putting her hands over her ears. "Now, do as I tell you, or I'll call Nard in here to take charge of you. And as you've seen, he's an absolute terror when he has a little power over someone."

Chekov reflected that he might be overreacting because of his own recent brush with disaster and uncertainty over its cause. Perhaps the kiani was only nervous and moody because of her silly party. He didn't really know her that well and it was always very possible to misread the body language of an alien. And yet he would swear there was something else… At any rate, it seemed that the only way to find out anything more was to go along with this foolish charade.

"All right," he said reluctantly. "However, I do not wish…"

"Silence, slave!" Kahsheel stamped her foot and pointed. "Or I'll have to undress you myself."

"Oh, most gracious and terrible mistress!" Chekov pleaded in mock abjection, entering into the game as he backed away towards the bathroom. "Not that! Anything but that!"

"Well," she relented. "Perhaps later, if you're very good."

"Then I will strive for absolute perfection."

Over the sound of water in the basin as he tried to get the last traces of the dwarf's blood off his fingers, Chekov could hear the clink of dishes.

"I've gotten you something to eat," Kahsheel called. "Are you hungry?"

"I am always hungry."

"Good. Go ahead and eat now before you change. I don't want anything to get on the new clothes."

"Of course." Chekov paused in reaching for a towel, wondering why he should find Kahsheel so attractive when a good deal of the time she simply sounded like his mother.

"I've got to check on the food… and see that Nard isn't abusing any of the servants I borrowed. Try to be ready when I come back."

"I will."

The kiani had already exited by the time Chekov re-entered the room. He smiled when he saw the selection of food and drink she'd left for him. They were all within his small range of favoured Kibrian delicacies. He'd never actually told her what he liked to eat, but somehow she knew. She must have been watching him intently from the moment they'd met.

When he picked up a piece of dark red fruit and bit into it, a strange sensation filled his mouth. A warmth spread all over his body. It was a fire that called to his very blood. Peeva.

He forced himself to spit the bite out. A shuddering tremor shook him as his body protested at being denied something it believed it could not live without. Another one rocked him as he forced his trembling hand to release the rest of the fruit back onto the plate. Yet another shiver of pure addicted desire took him as he sat staring at the dish, realising what it meant.

Kahsheel is trying to drug me again, he thought, heartsick. Why? He was doing everything she asked of him, if somewhat reluctantly at times. There was certainly no need to drug him to continue their physical relationship. What they'd done with the remainder of their time together when she'd borrowed him from the kitchens at lunch should have made that abundantly clear.

She'd said he might have taken it for the pain. Was that her reason? Then why conceal it? Or perhaps it had something to do with Ensign Davies and this stupid party. Could it be that there was something she wanted him to do with — or to — Davies that she didn't think he'd do of his own free will?

Chekov frowned. The possibilities there ranged from the merely annoying to the upsettingly embarrassing to the completely unthinkable.

Perhaps it wasn't Kahsheel who'd tried to drug him at all. Perhaps it was whoever had put that big-mouthed fish into the orchard.

Yes, Chekov decided, eagerly grasping any theory that kept the kiani's guilt in doubt. If someone is trying to kill me, having me drugged would make me particularly vulnerable.

Going along with the scheme seemed to be the best course of action for finding out who was at the bottom of it. He took the piece of fruit he'd spit out and another whole one for good measure into the bathroom and disposed of them. He then retrieved the remaining portion of the fruit he'd dropped, replaced it on the plate and sat down on the edge of Kahsheel's bed.

It was difficult to know exactly how to act. He remembered so little of what happened to him while he was under the influence of the drug. Also complicating things was the fact that the hand holding the uneaten portion of fruit was beginning to shake. He stared at it. It would be so easy and pleasant just to pop the rest of it into his mouth… Surely he'd built up some tolerance…

Chekov took a firm grip on himself and let the fruit roll out of his hand to the floor. Passive, he ordered himself, letting his head roll forward and his arms go limp. You must look and act completely relaxed and passive. Nothing anyone says or does must seem to disturb you.

After a moment, he heard the soft rustle of fabric as Kahsheel re-entered the room. When she lifted his head up, he kept his gaze unfocused and let his mouth fall slightly open.

"Well," she said, letting his head fall back down to his chest. "That takes care of you, doesn't it, you little devil? Just couldn't resist, thank goodness."

Chekov made no outward reaction, but inside his chest, his heart was breaking. Kahsheel had known about the drugged fruit.

"If you'd been just a little more cooperative, none of this would be necessary," she said, picking up the telltale piece of fruit and disposing of it. "If I could have found a way to keep your mind on alien technology and less on sex… " He heard her sigh. "…Maybe it's not all your fault. Maybe I'm the one whose mind has been on sex the whole time. I don't know anymore, and I don't have any more time to think about it. I don't have any time for your stubbornness and your questions. If you can't help me the way we planned, you're going to help me get to Davies… with whom sex won't have to enter into it… at least not sex with me… Do you understand?"

Chekov forced himself to answer tonelessly, "Yes, ma'am."

"That is a complete lie," she observed perceptively. "You don't understand anything right now, and you wouldn't even if you weren't drugged. But you do want to help me, don't you?"

"Yes, Kahsheel." His answer was the painful truth. Despite all that he'd heard, he still wanted to disbelieve. He still clung to the hope that there would be some reasonable explanation — some villain would appear and claim responsibility for making her betray him this way.

"All right," she said, slipping his tunic off over his head. "Let's see if we can get this done the hard way."

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