"Concentrate!" Khwaja screamed at him. "You're not concentrating!"

The harder Chekov tried to concentrate on filling the man's glass, the harder his hands seemed to shake.

"Worse this time than before!" the black-skinned man crowed, gleefully snatching the pitcher and glass away from him.

Chekov couldn't stop trembling as the contents of the glass were emptied over his head yet again. The water wasn't that cold. It just seemed that his muscles and nerves couldn't figure out how to function together properly any more.

"But a low tolerance to pain like his has to be a liability," Goudchaux was saying. He and Chen were having a pleasant, though somewhat one-sided debate over the ensign's fitness as a subject for torment while they finished their meal.

"Not always," the other man replied taciturnly.

"Yes, I suppose there would be some advantage to having a minimal level of damage done before you pass out," Goudchaux said, filling in the other man's arguments. "But still it seems like the elements of fear and dread would set in sooner and the physical strain of being repeatedly revived would wear you down... Although, I'll admit, burning out quickly is the best you can hope for in some interrogation scenarios. A challenge for the interrogator, though..."

Chen shrugged non-committally.

"Stop it, Khwaja," the old woman said irritably. "You'll send him into cardiac arrest."

"So?"

"Come here, Chekov," Goudchaux said, coming unexpectedly to his aid.

Chekov obeyed, leaving the unwieldy pitcher with Khwaja. "Sir?" he asked between chattering teeth.

"This..." Goudchaux gestured to his plate. "...was not up to your previous standard."

That was a bit of an understatement. It was a minor miracle that he'd been able to prepare the meal sustaining only a small burn and one minor cut. The galley was a wreck and there was a lot of food on the table and the floor that had originally been intended for someone's plate. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Not up to your previous standards at all, but under the circumstances..." The pirate lifted his shaking hand by its manacled wrist. "...I suppose we could be lenient. How long were you on the table?"

Mister Goudchaux seemed to have quite a fondness for euphemisms today. The 'table' he was referring to was a device of Klingon origin. After being strapped to it, the victim's nervous system was bombarded with waves of Kirlon energy -- exquisitely painful, but causing little actual physical deterioration.

Chekov swallowed and fixed his eyes on the opposite wall. "A very long time, sir."

"Five minutes," Chen corrected, munching on a piece of celery like a huge cow.

"Only five minutes to achieve this." Goudchaux smiled at Chekov's trembling hand as if it were something lovely. "Maximum efficacy and efficiency. An admirable job as always, Mister Chen. I'm sure our young friend here will think twice before he acts so impulsively again."

"I should give him a shot," the medic said, "before he breaks something."

"Don't bother," Goudchaux replied. "He'll be fine in about half an hour or so."

The pirate laughed at Chekov's look of disbelief. "That's the great thing about the table. It makes you feel like you're dying. A little while later, though, you're back on your feet and ready to start all over again."

Chekov decided, as he stood there wet and trembling uncontrollably, that he wouldn't commit suicide. Somehow he was going to live long enough to make this man very sorry that they'd ever met.

"Back to the bridge," the pirate ordered, giving Khwaja a friendly slap on the back. As his crew rose, Goudchaux handed Chekov his empty plate. "Get this mess cleaned up and fix something for Moray Morgain to eat when she gets off duty. I want you to fix her something very nice and deliver it to her quarters in about an hour. Her quarters are just a little down the corridor from here -- marked 4D. Tell her that it's with my compliments -- a special treat for a job well done."

Between Goudchaux's smile and Khwaja's parting smirk, it didn't take a genius to figure out what sort of a special treat the pirate captain was really sending his pilot. Chekov could feel a hot blush warming his icy cheeks. "Yes, sir."

"Don't keep her waiting." Goudchaux grinned as his crew filed out past him. "And try a little harder with our meal next time. I'd hate to have to show you my nasty side."

***

"Come."

Moray Morgain did not walk to her cabin door to answer it, as Chekov had vainly hoped she might, thus eliminating the slim possibility that he could just hand her the tray and walk away. Instead, he had to enter.

"Your lunch," he said as the door slid shut behind him.

Her quarters were far from sumptuous. There was a desk with a computer terminal, a chair in which she was presently sitting, drinking something amber coloured from a shot glass, and a bed.

She smiled as she beckoned him closer with one finger. "Well, bring it to me."

He came forward and stiffly set the tray down on the desk.

"What did Goudchaux tell you to say?" she prompted.

"He sends this to you with his compliments -- a special treat for a job well done." Overly high fanfare, Chekov thought, for the crookedly built club sandwich he'd come up with.

Moray Morgain seemed pleased though.

"You're embarrassed," she said, reaching out and touching his cheek. "How sweet. It's kind of like being on a first date, isn't it?"

Chekov took a deep breath. "Miss Morgain," he began reasonably.

"Don't take this wrong, angel," she interrupted, "But you don't look as good as you did the last time I saw you."

As Goudchaux had predicted, the trembling had worn off, but he still felt shaky. His hair and clothes were still damp from the dousing he'd received from Khwaja. The cuts on his back had healed enough that they only itched occasionally and there was still a funny taste in his mouth from having licked the deck clean.

"I've had a difficult morning," he explained briefly.

"Want something to drink?" she asked, opening a cabinet behind her.

"No Silurian vodka."

She laughed as she poured him something green. He drank it without bothering to check for signs of the presence of any additives. In this difficult social situation, he would have considered it an act of courtesy if she had decided to drug him.

"Sit down," she said, picking up her sandwich. "You're beginning to make me nervous."

There was, of course, no place to sit but on the bed. Chekov noted as he sat that it wasn't a particularly large or notably comfortable bed. It was only a little larger than a standard bunk. The mattress was set securely inside a form made of the same materials as the walls. Two inches of metal framed the mattress from head to foot. Ample material, Chekov decided, rubbing his wrists uncomfortably, to stick to.

The pirate lady was smiling at him. "It's better than being locked in your quarters, isn't it?"

"Is that where I would be if I was not here?" Chekov asked, wondering why they'd need to have him out of the way.

"Want some more?" Morgain asked, crossing to him with the decanter.

"No, thank you." Even sitting down, she was slightly taller than him. Her nearness made him think once again of how beautiful she was. The form-fitting black clothes she wore revealed her athletically good figure to a definite advantage. However, there were limits as to how far he was willing to go with this obedient servant charade. It felt as though they were rapidly approaching one such boundary.

"I must go back to the galley," he said, handing the glass back to her. "It is not completely in order..."

"Don't worry about dinner," she said, leaning over him to put glass and decanter on the stand next to her bed. She didn't come quite back up to sitting. Instead, she paused over his lap at the point where they were face to face. Her hand rested lightly on his thigh. "Dinner can take care of itself tonight."

Chekov took a moment to weigh his options. They were very few and most had unpleasant consequences. Making an objective evaluation based on the facts of the situation, he leaned slightly forward and kissed her. He had to admit in all fairness that she was quite pleasant to kiss -- perhaps even more pleasant to kiss than he'd remembered from the night before. One peculiar thing he almost failed to notice was that instead of putting her arms around him, she held his hands while she kissed him. It wasn't really that peculiar. In fact the reason she did it was quite apparent a moment later when she pushed him gently backwards onto the bed, kissing him and pulling his hands until there was the clink of the metal links around his wrists making contact with the metal surface surrounding the head of the bed.

"Miss Morgain..." he protested as she pulled his feet up onto the bed. He knew it would, however, be useless and even disingenuous to struggle at this point. "I assure you, this isn't necessary."

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" she asked as she secured his ankles in place. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"Yes. If you really wish to..."

She interrupted him with a kiss. "Good. I don't want you to get too comfortable with me."

Being brought into contact with metal again did make him notice something. The vibrations of the ship had changed. They'd dropped out of warp drive. Engines were at low power. Possibly the ship was in orbit or had pulled alongside another vessel. Possibly dinner would take care of itself tonight because the rest of the crew was going to be dining with representatives of a certain noble Orion family. "Miss Morgain..."

She pushed his head to one side and planted kisses on his cheek while her fingers unfastened his collar. "Haven't you ever had sex while you were tied up before?"

"No," Chekov answered as she rapidly undid the fastenings down the right shoulder and side of the shirt then pulled the garment aside. "I have not."

"Oh, well, I can't guarantee you'll like it..." She started kissing him on the throat and worked her way slowly down. "...at least, not at first."

***

Chekov glared at Moray Morgain's napkin as it lay upon the floor of the mess room. He did not gullibly bend over to pick it up as he had the last two times she 'accidentally' dropped it this morning.

"I can see," he said, carefully hooking the cloth on the toe of his boot and bringing it up to his hand, "that clearly it is too much to expect to be treated with even a minimal amount of decency."

Khwaja, Morgain's only companion for breakfast thus far, laughed around a mouthful of his meal. He for one was being greatly amused by the one-eyed pilot's game of creating opportunities to pinch or caress her little human plaything.

"Hey, Morgain," he asked rudely, "what's the difference between a virgin and a toilet?"

"The toilet doesn't cry after you use it," the pirate lady answered with equal gentility. Instead of taking her napkin from Chekov, she took his arm and pulled him close enough for her to put her arm around his waist. "What do you want, sweetheart? Just because I had sex with you, you want me to respect you?"

Chekov attempted unsuccessfully to disentangle himself. "I assure you, nothing that happened last evening would lead me to the unlikely conclusion that you have any sort of respect for me."

"Good. Because if you think I respect you, next you'll be wanting me to trust you." Morgain used her free hand to unfasten the shoulder of her shirt. She pointed out a round whitened scar that had a twin on the other side, marking what looked like the exit point of a laser beam. "You see that? That's what I got from the last man I trusted."

"Esme trusted this one," Khwaja pointed out, "and he put a scalpel to her throat yesterday."

Morgain's grip on him weakened perceptibly. "Is that true?" she asked, her one eye narrowing.

Chekov used the opportunity to free himself and pick up her empty plate.

"Well, well, well. Not quite the choirboy we pretend to be, are we?" He didn't move away fast enough to avoid the unladylike swat she aimed at his backside. "But then again, I figured that out last night."

Chekov was utilising more force than was entirely necessary to put Miss Morgain's breakfast things into the disposal unit when the door opened.

"...hours at the most," said the first new voice he'd heard in almost two days. "Then we can complete our little transaction and I'll be on my way."

The owner of this unfamiliar voice was a smallish but strongly built man who entered at Goudchaux's side. The man looked around thirty-five years old, was definitely human, probably from Earth or one of her colonies to judge by his accent, but was dressed in the outlandish costume of an Orion retainer. A red robe embossed with a purple and gold design based on an Orion crest was thrown over his satiny emerald green tunic, shimmering gold sash and lividly blue trousers. The stranger wore a thin Orion style beard on his face and a green Orion hat perched on his head. Gold chains, purple beads and silver medallions decorated his costume liberally. In the midst of the grey or black-clad pirates on their grey/black ship, the stranger looked uncannily like a parrot lost in a coal pit.

"Good morning, Khwaja, Miss Morgain," he greeted the pirates cheerily. "I was just saying to your captain that between the four of us we should have the problem with my transfer coils worked out in no time at all."

The stranger followed their uneasy glances to Chekov. The ensign saw him take in the distinctive cut of his Starfleet trousers and boots in a quick glimpse. "I don't believe I've met this fellow."

"Don't talk to him." Khwaja shoved Chekov aside to put his plate in the disposal unit. "He's nobody."

"And he's sulking," Morgain added.

"Well, hello, Mister Nobody." The stranger pleasantly offered him a hand to shake. "I'm not inclined to bandy my real name about either, but you can call me Stuart Brecht."

Chekov crossed his arms. One advantage to being a galley slave aboard a pirate ship was that etiquette didn't require you to shake hands with traitorous freebooters in the employ of powers frequently allied against the best interests of the Federation. "I suppose I am to address this person as 'sir' also?"

"I'll give you a refresher course on manners later." Goudchaux put an icy hand on Chekov's shoulder and propelled him towards the kitchen. "For now, get Mister Brecht some of your very good coffee and make yourself scarce."

"So," the newcomer said, taking a seat at the table beside Morgain. "You've taken on another mouth to feed, have you, Goudchaux?"

"Just giving an eager young man an opportunity to see the galaxy," the pirate replied with a falsely amiable tone that Chekov in the next room could clearly interpret as a warning to the freebooter to drop the subject.

"Very charitable of you, I'm sure," Brecht returned agreeably. "Speaking of charity, I was thinking you might do me a favour."

Goudchaux leaned back so Chekov could place a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. "I might."

"I was thinking it might save us all a little time later if you went ahead and had Mister Chen transfer..." Brecht eyed the ensign cautiously as he put a cup down in front of him. "...well, have him transfer your half of our bargain to my ship now."

"Not getting eager to leave, are you, Stu?" Morgain asked, putting her arm around him. "Not before you and I have had a chance to talk old times?"

"No chance of that, my sweet." Brecht affectionately tapped the plate over her missing eye. "And how far could I get with a burned out transfer coil anyway?"

"I'm not disagreeable to the idea of transferring our cargo now," Goudchaux said. "As you say, it would save time later. What would you say if I proposed we complete the entire exchange now?"

The freebooter's expression flickered. His laugh sounded hollow as his eyes darted briefly around the table. "That wouldn't be to my advantage."

"Relax, Brecht." Khwaja grinned like a jackal. "You're among friends."

Chekov felt his pulse rising as the tension in the air thickened. His mind raced to come up with a way to turn what looked to be an imminent attack on this newcomer to an advantage for him.

Brecht smiled humourlessly. "I know the piece I'm holding will be the fifth one for you."

Goudchaux spread his hands innocently. "Then you'll be as curious as we are to see how it looks in place."

"C'mon, Stu." Morgain gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "What could be the harm in a little sneak preview?"

Chekov watched the freebooter take a long moment to weigh his odds again. "Yeah, what's the harm?" he said with false brightness as he reached into his clothing. "Since we're all old friends."

Morgain's hand on his arm stopped him. "Well, most of us are old friends," she said, nodding towards Chekov.

Under the direction of a snap and jerk of the thumb from Goudchaux, Khwaja unceremoniously grabbed Chekov by the back of the collar and shoved him out the mess room door.

"Damn," Chekov swore softly as the door closed on what was shaping up to be a very interesting scene. It occurred to him, however, that his abrupt ejection was the first evidence he'd seen of a lack of one hundred percent planning on Goudchaux's part. Here he was, completely unchaperoned, with no other instruction than to "make himself scarce".

He looked down the corridor. It ran in a straight line for about twenty metres. There were about eight doors off it, but no other passageways branching from it. His 'quarters' were at one end, next to the miniature sick bay. He guessed there were only three or four levels to this small ship. Mister Chen's domain was below this deck and the bridge was probably above. Checking over the mental map his experiences thus far allowed him to draw of the ship, he concluded that depressingly large areas were still marked "here be dragons".

He sighed and looked at the manacles on his wrists. If they worked as Goudchaux had said -- and nothing about the incident with the ship's medic had disproved that -- then his possibilities for exploration were limited. However, it occurred to him that his excursion to the lower level yesterday hadn't tripped any alarms. Perhaps he could see what else was down there.

'And if I do get caught,' he thought cheerfully as he pressed the call button for the lift, 'at least I won't have far to walk this time.'

Inside the door there were three buttons, confirming the existence of three levels. At the last minute, he decided to go up.

Same layout, same doors, but the furthermost doors on the right were open. Nothing, dammit, was labelled. There had to be damage control points, though. Even on a pirate vessel there would still be postings showing escape routes and general layouts, in case of emergencies. He smiled when he spotted one. It was striped blue and orange. From that he should have been able to determine where the ship was registered, or at least originally registered. It was probably long absent from the respectable lists of any legal port.

Chekov held his breath as he put his hand on the panel and waited for hell to break loose. Nothing. The cover lifted smoothly, revealing extinguishers, emergency oxygen, switches to bring down emergency bulkheads, protected intra-ship communications. All potentially useful items. But no plans.

Where else on this ship could he go? He closed his eyes for a moment. Although his progress so far was not exactly inspiring, it felt good to be active. The simple fact that he was doing something other than just running before the wind of the pirates' cruelty made him very happy.

A strange sensation in his right wrist caused him to open his eyes abruptly. His hand, which had been resting on the edge of the panel's opening, seemed to be moving of its own volition.

"Oh, no," he said when it stuck to the metal wall. "Oh, no, no, no!"

His frantic efforts to free himself only succeeded in bringing his other manacled wrist into contact with the wall. If only he could figure out how to de-activate those infernal things!

He was left with nothing to do but slowly beat his head against his wrists in despair until his tormentors arrived. He had almost ten minutes in which to review his complete lack of options.

The first one on the scene was Chen. Chekov guessed his identity as soon as he heard the sound of heavy footsteps travelling down the corridor. The big man stopped a few paces away. When Chekov looked up, they stared at each other silently and impassively for a moment.

"The alarms," Chen said at length. "You can't hear them, you know."

"No." Chekov shook his head and closed his eyes again. "I didn't know that."

The next to arrive was Goudchaux.

"And just what were you trying to do?" he asked.

Chekov smiled feebly. "Make myself scarce?"

"Scarce?" Goudchaux laughed and slapped him on the back. "You're damn near to making yourself extinct. Mister Chen, it seems our young friend is interested in taking another tour."

"Time for my lesson in courtesy already?" Chekov asked bleakly as Chen plucked his wrists off the wall and pressed them into one neat bundle.

"We're trying to make this voyage as educating as possible for you, Mister Chekov," Goudchaux replied genially.

"Funny to hear you call him 'Mister'," said a voice that made them all turn quickly. Arriving without notice, Stuart Brecht stood lounging against the bulkhead opposite, watching them with his lively, curious eyes. "Makes him sound more like a Starfleet officer than a cabin boy."

Goudchaux's eyes narrowed dangerously. "And if he is?"

"You know I have a buyer for one," Brecht replied genially. "I'm sure I could make it for two, and if not, I've got other prospects."

Chekov could feel his temper rising. Here was the author of all his misfortunes. The other 'half' of the freebooter's transaction was Mister Scott. "Why, you filthy coss..."

His outburst was abruptly cut off by the placement of Mister Chen's huge hand over his mouth. Slipping a gigantic arm around his chest, Chen lifted him off the ground and out of reach of Brecht as easily as he would a two-year-old.

"Sorry," Goudchaux said, as the ensign continued to struggle profitlessly. "We haven't quite gotten him housebroken yet."

"I have clients who like them with a little spirit."

"Klingons?"

Brecht shrugged discretely. "I could give you five hundred grams of dilithium for him -- as is."

"Put him down, Chen," Goudchaux ordered.

The big man lowered Chekov's feet to the deck but held him firmly in place with a solid double grip on his shoulders.

"Five hundred, hmm?" Goudchaux eyed the ensign appraisingly. "I don't know, Brecht. You see, we've grown awfully fond of him... and it's so hard to find someone who makes good coffee. What do you say, Chekov? Are you worth five hundred in dilithium to keep?"

Chekov bit his lip. This ship was the next thing to hell, but the pirates' random cruelties were probably preferable to the disciplined inhumanity of Klingons. And Goudchaux would eventually make a mistake.

"That amount is equal to three and a half years' pay for an ensign," he replied soberly. "Do you plan to keep me alive that long?"

Goudchaux crowed with laughter. "And he's so entertaining. Sorry, Brecht, but I just don't think the crew would forgive me if I let him slip through my fingers."

On the other hand, losing touch with Brecht meant losing his last link to Mister Scott. Chekov cursed himself for immediately thinking only of his own safety, like an addle-brained civilian. When Brecht left, his only chance of freeing the engineer left with him.

"Well..." Brecht smiled easily. "Let me know if you change your mind."

Goudchaux turned to his prisoner as the freebooter entered the lift. "Nice to be wanted, isn't it?"

"Not especially," Chekov answered grimly.

The pirate nodded to his henchman. "Mister Chen, let's see if we can't make our little guest feel more at home."

***