The person who pushed Khwaja off the ensign turned out to be Stuart Brecht.

"I'm taking the ship," he announced. "Are you with me?"

"Yes," Chekov answered, looking up the barrel of Brecht's Orion-made phaser.

"Good." Brecht released his wrists and ankles. "C'mon. We've got a matter of seconds at the most."

When they entered the corridor, Brecht reached inside his clothing and pulled out another weapon. "I hope you're a good shot," he said, handing it to Chekov as they hurried down the passageway.

This one was a top-of-the-line Klingon disruptor. "With one of these, how good a shot do you need to be?" Chekov asked.

Brecht led him into one of the cabins. What looked like a closet opened onto what was actually a small lift car.

"There's a crawl tube next door that will put me out at the other end of the bridge," Brecht explained, pushing him into the lift. "Shoot at anything that moves, then try to find the intruder alert controls. We'll need to flood the lower decks with sleeping gas as quickly as possible. Oh, and try to keep your hands away from the walls."

"Wait!" Chekov looked down at his arms, suddenly remembering the manacles there. "You've got to get these things off me!"

"Sorry, sport," Brecht apologised as he reached in and set the controls. "But I just don't know how."

"But with this weapon, heading towards the bridge..." Chekov held out his arms helplessly. "I will be setting off every alarm on the ship."

"I hope so," Brecht grinned as the doors closed between them. "You'll draw their fire while I take them from behind. That's the plan."

"Oh, my God," Chekov said as a half-prayer. Despite the fact it would probably get him killed, Brecht's wasn't a bad plan. Chekov set his weapon at a level that, he hoped, wouldn't breach the hull, pointed it at the lift door and waited.

As he thought it might, the lift halted in between decks.

"All right, angel," came a familiar feminine voice over the intercom. "Be a good boy and put it down."

"No," Chekov replied, hoping this only meant that Brecht had yet to arrive on the bridge. "I'm through with being ordered around."

"And what's driven you to this, sweetheart?" As Morgain spoke, his wrists suddenly magnetised and snapped together, sending his disruptor clattering to the floor. "Have another bad episode with Mister Chen?"

When Chekov knelt to retrieve his weapon, his manacles stuck to the floor.

He could hear Moray Morgain's laughter. "Angel, you just can't seem to win for losing. Why don't you..."

The sizzling sound of phaser fire abruptly cut her off.

After a moment, the lift started under way again. The doors opened to reveal Stuart Brecht standing with his hands on his hips.

"A lot of help you'd be to me in that position," he scolded, kneeling to free him.

"I was supposed to be a diversion, so I was being diverting," Chekov explained dryly. "Do you expect me to believe that you can de-activate these manacles but you don't know how to remove them?"

"That's it, chief." Brecht nodded, returning his disruptor to him and giving him a hand up.

Chekov eyed him narrowly, quite sure that this was not the truth. "You must show me how to de-activate these, then."

"No time for that now, old sport," Brecht said, moving quickly to a computer console on the pirate ship's tiny bridge. "I've gassed the lower decks, but I can't find Goudchaux and Chen on any of the surveillance screens."

The bridge was so small, it could more properly be called a cockpit. It was a rectangular room. The pilot's position was far forward. A command chair sat in the middle and each wall was lined with computer stations. It looked like it could hold a maximum of ten people.

Chekov stepped over Moray Morgain's unconscious form to get to the pilot's position.

"I think I've found them," he said, after consulting the ship's sensors.

"Where?" Brecht asked, quickly joining him.

"The docking lock is being activated on your ship."

"Override!"

Chekov shook his head. "It's too late."

"Damn!" Brecht swore, sliding into the pilot's seat. "I knew they had that transfer coil replaced hours ago. Weaponry is over there, lad. Get our shields up and get ready to fire."

It only took Chekov a few seconds to orient himself to the unfamiliar controls. "Shields at maximum. Phaser banks show ready. No photon torpedoes?"

Brecht laughed. "No shit, kid. You're not on a starship any more."

"I am aware of that," Chekov informed him. "Where is the communications console?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I am going to call Starfleet," Chekov replied. "Request assistance."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible." Brecht drew his weapon and fired it into a console on the opposite wall. "Communications are out."

Chekov frowned as his best link back to civilisation hissed, crackled and scorched to death. "That was not a very intelligent thing to do, Mister Brecht."

"They're pulling away," Brecht announced, his fingers flying over the controls. "Aim for the right forward shield. It's the weakest."

"Right forward shield targeted."

"Then fire and keep on firing until it folds, boy!"

"Firing," Chekov reported aloud out of force of habit. "And it is a... hit! Right forward shield down to thirty per cent. Firing again... A clean miss. They are taking evasive manoeuvres. Phaser banks recharging. Incoming fire!"

The pirate ship rocked with the impact.

"Shields holding," Chekov said, clinging to his console.

"But damned if we aren't losing speed!" Brecht flipped buttons frantically. "There's something wrong with the engines!"

"I think they were out of balance."

"Damn! Give them another round of phasers and then see if there's anything you can do for us."

"Firing phasers... Another hit. Right forward shield folding. Firing again... and hitting again... Damage to their forward section."

"That'll slow 'em down," Brecht said with grim satisfaction.

Chekov looked for something that looked like engineering controls. Instead he found a peculiar looking panel on the console next to him. After he pressed a button, the cover slid away to reveal some unlabelled controls. "What's this, Mister Brecht?"

The freebooter looked back quickly, then did a double take. His face split into a broad grin. "Well, bless Goudchaux's paranoid, spendthrift, larcenous little heart. He's bought himself a cloaking device! Press the big button in the middle like your life depended on it, kid!"

The ship jolted from the impact of another phaser salvo as Chekov did so. "Our rear shields are folding. I can't tell if this thing has activated or not."

"Does it show an orange light, chief?" Brecht asked, struggling with his controls.

"Yes."

Brecht smiled and nodded as he changed course. "Orange is Klingonese for good news."

"Does your ship have such a device?" Chekov asked as he searched for the damage control console.

"Don't I wish it did," Brecht replied with a laugh. "Why do you think the Orions are trying so hard to do business with the Klingons? But..." he added as he saw the ensign's face darken at this, "let's not talk politics."

"They're passing us," Chekov reported, turning back to his monitors. "Our rear shield array is below forty per cent efficiency and we are rapidly losing warp capacity."

"Goudchaux's just about out of sensor range," Brecht confirmed. "I'm taking us down to sub-light."

"We will need a full shut down if we are to effect repairs to the engines."

"We'd better wait around a while to see if Goudchaux has any more cards up his sleeve before we do that."

Chekov snapped his fingers as a happy notion occurred to him. "Mister Scott! If you free him, then he can help us with the engines."

Brecht smiled guiltily. "I'm sure he could... if he was still on this ship. They transferred him while you were taking waltz lessons from Mister Chen."

"Damn!" Chekov cursed the ill fortune who had gotten him into this predicament and continued to squash all possibilities of getting him out of it.

"I'm sure the two of us can muddle through somehow," Brecht said cheerfully, as he locked a heading into the course controls. He rose, crossed to a forward locker and removed a gas mask. "I'm going below. I want to take a look at the engine room and see to our guests."

Chekov looked at the still form of Moray Morgain and felt a twinge of concern despite himself. "What are you going to do with them?"

"Lock them up," Brecht said, stepping over her. "She should stay out for a while. I'll be back for her."

"You intend to sell them, don't you?" Chekov asked bluntly. "You intend to sell us all. That's why you refuse to remove my restraints."

Brecht smiled and spread his hands as he paused in front of the lift. "You're jumping to conclusions, chief. Just calm down and see what you can do about damage control. When things settle a little, you and I will sit down over a couple of cups of your excellent coffee and talk this whole thing out."

"You can make your own damned coffee," Chekov informed him coldly.

Brecht put his hands on his hips. "You know, I've had coffee on this ship more than a dozen times and it's never tasted like it does when you fix it."

"It's very simple, really." Chekov folded his arms. "Order coffee from the food supply unit. Add water and put it in the processing unit. Then bring it to me and I will spit in it for you."

Brecht laughed and shook his finger at him as he backed into the lift. "You're a sly little bastard, but I think I like that."

Chekov blew out a long breath as the doors closed on him and turned back to the controls in front of him. He frowned as the piece of illegal Klingon technology that had quite probably saved his or Mister Scott's life blinked at him diligently. Although his situation appeared to have improved greatly, he was still in bad company.

He picked the disruptor Brecht had given him up off the console and checked it carefully. It seemed to be in working order and fully charged. He engaged the safety and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers.

Damage control turned out to be located on a console to his far right. He initiated repairs on the shields and did what he could to contain the engine malfunction. He then stepped down to the pilot's position.

Comparing sensor output to the computer's navigational charts told him they were very deep in Orion space -- deeper than he'd ever been before. Even if they had full warp capacity, it would take days to reach the nearest Federation outpost.

Chekov shook his head. It seemed his situation had only changed from doing what the pirates told him to doing what Stuart Brecht told him. He loosened the neck of his tunic and gingerly reached down to test one of the places where Khwaja had bitten him. All of them still hurt terribly. The skin didn't seem to be broken on this particular one, but he could feel deep impressions of the black man's teeth.

Chekov was idly wondering if there were any truth in the old wives' tale that more diseases could be passed by the bite of a human than of most wild animals when a sudden noise caught his attention. He turned in his seat and levelled the disruptor at a crouching figure in black.

Moray Morgain rose to her feet.

"Oh, sweetheart," she sighed, the dim lighting reflecting off her metallic eye patch and the knife in her hand. "I was counting on you not having that."

"I would advise you to remain where you are, Miss Morgain," Chekov said, clicking off the disruptor's safety. "For as the old Russian saying goes, the boot is on the other foot now."

"So it is." She smiled and continued to move forward. "It's your move, choirboy. What are you going to do?"

When his aim didn't waver, she slowed to a halt.

"There's no stun setting on those things, you know," she informed him.

Chekov tightened his grip on the disruptor, forcing himself not to take his eyes off her for the time it would take to verify this. Klingons, he assured himself, were violent, but did know the value of having options. An enemy who was either dead or victorious ruled out a lot of possibilities. He had no doubt, however, that a Klingon would prefer his opponent to have no stun setting on their weapon. "You are assuming that I do not wish to kill you."

Morgain smiled. "I'd bet my life on it."

Chekov drew in a deep breath as she slowly moved one foot forward.

"Then again," she said, withdrawing it at the last moment, "one shouldn't underestimate the wrath of a wounded male ego, should one?"

He motioned with the disruptor. "Drop your knife and move back."

"Still sore at me, hmm?" she asked as she complied. "C'mon angel, grow up. Just because I like to play rough doesn't mean I'm all bad. I was just having a little fun. You know that I really like you, don't you?"

"Put your hands behind your head, please," he ordered.

"What are you going to do? Tie me up?" She shifted her weight to one hip as she slowly stretched her arms up then crossed her wrists behind her neck -- showing off the long lines of her beautiful body like a pin up model. "I'd get excited if I didn't know you weren't into the kinky stuff."

Chekov considered his options. One couldn't be too sure about Klingon armament, but he definitely thought the weapon he was holding was set on stun. Perhaps it didn't matter. Perhaps he should kill her... At any rate, he could club her with the disruptor. To that extent a Klingon weapon had a stun setting of sorts. He could sit and watch her until Brecht came back. He could trust her and move on to doing something else. Unaccountably, he very much wanted to take the last option.

"Why hasn't your new friend Stuart Brecht taken those bracelets off you?" Morgain asked, posing a very legitimate question.

Chekov kept his mouth tightly closed on his lack of an answer.

"Not a full partner, huh? Just a junior mutineer?" she speculated patronisingly. "If Brecht's running the show, I'll bet he'll want my help This is a small ship, but it's not designed for two-man operation. Where do the two of you intend to go?"

Chekov shifted uncomfortably as she waited for an answer, her one good eye boring into him. He tried to tell himself that he did so simply because his arm was getting tired.

"You don't know, do you, angel?" she answered for him. "You're just riding Brecht's wave, hoping it'll beach you somewhere sandy. Look, sweetheart... I mean, Mister Chekov..." She smiled as he scowled at her newly adopted polite way of addressing him. "You're new to this game, but you're not stupid. Trust me, you could be better off with me than Brecht. After all, you know the worst where I'm concerned. Here, as a gesture of good faith, let me take that ironware off you..."

When she lowered her hands he jerked the disruptor up to cover her.

"My, my, my, but aren't you the suspicious one? But then again, I like that in a man," she said, her tone lowering to a seductive purr. "I like a lot about you... as a man. Come on, baby. Brecht's not your type."

"Put your hands back where they were, Miss Morgain."

She sighed and rolled her good eye as she complied. "What the hell do they do at that Academy? Bring in gorgeous women to flatter you until you're immune to it?"

Chekov knew why he kept toying with the idea of trusting Morgain. It wasn't that she was trustworthy, of course. It wasn't that she was beautiful. It was just so exhausting not to trust anyone. Look where that attitude had gotten the Orlan Du, still dispossessed of their treasure going on three millennia. Then again, he'd gotten into this whole mess by trusting that Mister Scott wouldn't lead him into trouble. Perhaps it was time he developed a suspicious streak. He stood up, keeping the disruptor aimed at Morgain's head -- without making any final check on the setting. "Slide the knife across to me."

"I suppose Stu's got everyone else locked up below decks," Morgain said, pushing the knife towards him with her foot.

Chekov didn't bend to pick it up. He kicked it further away putting himself between the pirate lady and her weapon. "Now lie down, please."

"Sure." She grinned as she lowered herself to the deck on her back. She propped one foot up on the engineer's seat and the other on the railing opposite. "Be gentle with me, angel."

Chekov cleared his throat. "The other way around, please, Miss Morgain."

"What ever turns you on, sugar," Morgain teased, rolling onto her stomach.

Despite his best efforts, Chekov could feel himself blushing. Moray Morgain was making this very difficult. He'd never tied up a woman before... particularly not a woman he'd been intimate with. And despite her shameful treatment of him and her general lack of good character, Moray Morgain was undeniably a woman... noticeably from this angle.

Chekov cleared his throat again, trying to regain the sense of depersonalised detachment Morgain was attempting to deny him. He crossed her hands against the small of her back, then put his knee on top of them.

"That hurts," his captive informed him, as he placed the barrel of the disruptor against the back of her neck. "And that thing's cold."

"One moment." Using his free hand, the ensign ripped the sleeve off the arm holding the disruptor. He put the top of the sleeve in his mouth and tore it in half. He then carefully tied first her wrists then her ankles together with the shreds.

"Oh, come on!" she protested as he tore off his other sleeve and used it to tie her wrists to her ankles. "What do you think I'm going to try to do?"

"Escape and kill me," Chekov answered, tucking the disruptor into his waistband again as he turned to the engineering console.

"Well, there's that," Morgain replied dryly, then tried to blow the dirt and hair away from her mouth. "Khwaja should have gotten you to lick this deck clean while he was at it. What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Chekov replied, crossing to what was left of the communications console. One thing that he had learned from the miserably boring four weeks he'd been assigned to the Communications Division on the Enterprise was that the hardest thing in communications was making a ship not make noise. He knew of ways to generate subspace messages from half a dozen of the ship's systems. Uhura knew hundreds. He set up a program that would cause the warp drive to send out Starfleet distress codes all the time it was operating above a certain level. Then he hid the program, along with a handful of other useful glitches, deep in the housekeeping routines of the ship.

"This isn't the Academy, you know," Morgain warned him as he crossed to do a quick review of the progress of damage control. "Stu's not going to give you any extra points for taking the initiative."

Chekov ignored her as he sat down at what functioned as the science console and put the numbers from the medallion on the screen in front of him, nice and big.

"Oh, so he's not made of stone, after all," Morgain mocked, twisting to keep sight of him. "Not even little Mister Goody-Two-Shoes can resist the call of the treasure of the Orlan Du, huh? What is it, angel? Longing for a little fortune and glory? Get a taste of the life beyond 'yes, sir', 'no, sir', and decide you like it?"

"Hardly."

"Oh, I see," she said sarcastically. "You're just into it for the intellectual challenge. Of course."

Rather than replying, he had the computer display the numbers one at a time out of sequence.

"Even if they are navigational coordinates, they don't do us much good, do they?" Morgain continued, the mocking tone gradually dropping out of her voice

Chekov had long since dismissed the possibility that they were anything of the sort. However, since he didn't particularly want her to know what he was thinking, he went along with her. "If we knew what system they used, if that information is available somewhere..."

"Stu will have it," she said confidently. "Tell me, Mister Chekov, if you thought we could find the treasure -- and that you'd survive -- you couldn't pass up a chance like that, could you?"

He turned around and looked at her. "What are you suggesting?"

"There's not going to be a reward for finding the treasure and turning it in, y'know. Although nobody really owns it now, I doubt the Orions are going to let anybody keep it. If you want to find the treasure, you've got to be prepared to spend the rest of your life very well disguised..."

"And it might not be a very long life."

"It would be a pleasanter life if you had some friends who were in the same situation," Morgain said persuasively, "who'd understand your problems..."

Chekov was beginning to wish he'd gagged her as he turned back to the numbers. He had the computer arrange them back into their original order and began methodically trying all the possible solutions... then dismissing them one by one. After a few minutes of silent contemplation, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the engineering console, steepling his fingers. It definitely helped...

The lift doors swooshed open. "You're sure you're a navigator, not an engineer?"

"Quite sure." Chekov tried to recapture his last promising train of thought, but Brecht's breathless arrival had completely disrupted it.

"Oh, hello Moray," Brecht said, almost stumbling over her. "Long time since I've seen you like that."

Morgain made an obscene suggestion.

"Maybe some other time," Brecht replied amiably as he retrieved her knife.

"What are you doing?" Chekov asked as the freebooter cut the tie between her wrists and her ankles.

"We're going to need her."

"Wait. Stop," Chekov said firmly. "I would prefer you didn't do that without consulting me first."

Brecht rolled his eyes as he stood and put his hands on his hips. "Okay, chief, what's the problem?"

"He's still pouting because I..."

"That isn't it," Chekov quickly interrupted her. "And don't call me 'chief'."

"Military men and their titles," Brecht shrugged elaborately. "So what are you? A lieutenant?"

"An ensign."

"Is that higher or lower than a lieutenant?"

"It's somewhat lower than captain," Chekov admitted truthfully.

"Well, look, Commodore," Brecht said, "The plain truth of the situation is that we don't have any engines. At least not that will get us anywhere."

"What seems to be wrong?" Chekov asked, crossing to the engineering console and checking the read outs.

"That panel isn't talking to them, for a start. That misphasing -- how did you know about it, anyway?"

"Little forest animals told me about it," Chekov replied unhelpfully.

"I think you're more of an engineer than you're letting on," Brecht accused. "Anyway, the resonance has shaken the dilithium crystals all but to pieces. I guess we can stay cloaked for another twelve hours, or make it about one tenth of the way back to Federation space at warp one, and then we're belly up."

"That five hundred grams of dilithium..."

"Nearer to nine hundred," Brecht corrected. "I never start with my top bid."

"...Is in Goudchaux's possession on the... what was it?"

"Black Beauty."

Chekov frowned. "How can Miss Morgain help us?"

"I could get out and push," she suggested.

"She can send a message to Goudchaux."

"Goudchaux," Chekov repeated disbelievingly.

"I know, I know," Brecht waved aside his protest. "But this ship is a wreck. It makes me wonder if Goudchaux didn't intend to help himself to my Black Beauty all along. Goudchaux's got the dilithium crystals, Goudchaux's got the medallion, Goudchaux's got..."

"...Mister Scott," Chekov said, coming around to the idea, "who could rephase the engines..."

"But only if he thought he was going to be using them to get home," Brecht pointed out.

"That's not a bad thing," Chekov assured him.

"Not for you, Commodore, but I have very good reasons for not wanting to go back to Federation territory. How d'you think your good friend Mister Scott would respond to a three way split?"

On the deck, Moray Morgain cleared her throat. "Make that a four way split. You'd need me to lure Goudchaux in close enough for you to catch him."

Chekov crossed his arms. "Why should he come back for her?"

"She could tell him she'd gotten control of the ship," Morgain replied. "He'll come back for that cloaking device and God knows what else he's got stashed on this boat."

"And..." Brecht smiled. "For the brilliant idea you've come up with about those numbers."

Chekov bit his lower lip thoughtfully as he looked back at the screen behind him. The first two were as much a mystery as ever. Glancing at the third, without preconceptions, he realised that is was his birthday, in conventional Terran format rather than a stardate, plus a check digit. How ridiculous. "I will agree to luring Goudchaux back, but only under one condition..."

"Commodore." Brecht held up a silencing hand. "You seem to be labouring under the mistaken notion that I'm asking your permission. I'm not. I appreciate your cooperation, but that's the extent of it. I'm not out to hurt you and I'll try to see you get out of this alive... Lord knows, a friend in uniform would do me good sometimes. However, realise now, son, my prime objective is getting Stuart Gordon Brecht out of here in one piece... Either with your Mister Scott or a sufficient share of the treasure to pay off my backers."

"Like I told you, angel," Morgain said into the thickening silence between the two men, "you're only a junior mutineer on this cruise."

Chekov held up his wrists. "Take these off me. You cannot deal with Goudchaux by yourself. And you cannot pilot this ship by yourself. And you cannot trust Miss Morgain."

"I'd love to, Commodore." Brecht shrugged. "I just don't know how."

Chekov pointed to his captive. "She does."

"No, I don't," Morgain insisted.

"I won't cooperate with you until I am freed," Chekov maintained stubbornly.

"Hmm." Brecht's face didn't show any possibility of relenting.

It looked like stalemate. The ensign didn't bother to point out that Morgain had offered to remove the manacles earlier. To expect her to have been telling the truth struck even him as pitiably naive.

Chekov lowered his arms and drew in a deep breath. "I do have an idea."

"About the numbers?" A smile began to play about Brecht's lips. "Well, let's hear it, Admiral."

Chekov silently held his wrists back up.

"Bull-headed little son of a bitch, isn't he?" Morgain commented sympathetically from the deck as Brecht sighed and stuck the knife in the top of his boots.

"Tell me about this idea," Brecht said, coming forward and taking one of his wrists.

"It would require two ships to implement." Chekov noted that Brecht held his arm in a position that didn't allow the ensign to see exactly what he was doing.

"How convenient, Admiral. How very convenient." Brecht stepped back. "There you are. If they catch you, they can turn them on again, but..."

Chekov looked at his still heavily encumbered arms and shook his head. "I want these off," he insisted.

"I told you I couldn't do that," Brecht replied. "I deactivated them. That's all I can do."

"Then show me how you did that."

"Maybe after you tell me about this idea of yours."

Chekov frowned. He simply couldn't allow this 'junior mutineer' treatment to go any further.

"Mister Brecht..." he began, reaching out and putting a conspiratorial hand on the freebooter's shoulder.

"Yes?"

Taking advantage of the element of surprise and the added weight on his arm, Chekov slugged Brecht across the jaw. As his victim reeled from the blow, the ensign deftly plucked Brecht's weapon from his side. He then caught the bigger man's arms behind his back in a very effective security hold he'd learned at the very Academy these pirates were so fond of sneering at.

"Give me a reason to trust you, Mister Brecht," Chekov said, pressing the cold barrel of the disruptor to the freebooter's neck with his free hand.

On the floor near them, Moray Morgain was laughing. "You've got to watch him every minute, Stu."

"Shut up," Brecht replied, then as Chekov twisted his arm painfully higher, "Ow! Why, you ungrateful, young..!"

"I have very little to be grateful for... yet."

"Sorry, my mind's gone blank," Brecht answered obstinately. "Pain has that effect on me."

"How interesting," Chekov said unsympathetically. "I've recently learned that pain makes me impatient, vindictive and very, very angry. So tell me, how do you get these things off?"

"I don't know. Ow! ... All right, all right. There's a code you have to input. A different one for each of them, if I remember correctly. And I don't know what it is."

Brecht landed flat on his face on the floor. He started to get up, then flung himself back down at the sound of the disruptor discharging. "What the..?"

Chekov was gingerly inspecting a scalded, naked wrist.

"You idiot! Did Chen short-circuit your brain?" Brecht demanded, keeping a safe distance away from the ensign. "That thing could have blown your hands off -- or worse..."

The disruptor made similarly short work of the remaining three cuffs. Chekov had to lean on a nearby console for a moment. His face had gone white and tight with unacknowledged pain. Mastering this, he stepped forward and held Brecht's gun out to him.

The freebooter made no move to take it. "What?"

"I have no choice, Mister Brecht. Like you, I cannot pilot this vessel alone. I doubt if I can even get it running properly. I must trust you or remain stranded here. All I wish is to regain Mister Scott's freedom and return safely to Federation territory. If the price for that is helping you find your treasure, then so be it."

Brecht reached for his weapon. "A very half-hearted reason to do business, Mister Chekov, but I appreciate your frankness with me."

Despite their truce, Chekov didn't offer the renegade a hand up. Brecht, on the other hand, didn't look like he expected one.

"All right, Moray," the freebooter said, dusting himself off. "Tell us why you shipped out with Goudchaux."

Morgain countered with a suggestion that Brecht perform a certain activity with a particular four-horned species of Arcturian herd beast.

"Never on a Sunday," Brecht replied.

"Miss Morgain," Chekov intervened. "We are trying to decide if we should trust you enough to allow you to help us, or if we should kill you. Cooperation would be in your best interest."

Brecht, much impressed, whistled. "These people have been a bad influence on you, Commodore. I do believe you're threatening the lady."

Morgain rolled over and up into a seated position. "It's just a stupid question. I mean, it's not like I'm working for charity here."

"I know there's a history between you and Goudchaux," Brecht said, "On account of Old Mac."

"Yeah," Morgain admitted. "But as I figure it, he owes me."

"The question is," Chekov interjected, trying to bring the conversation back onto a level in which he could participate, "do you feel you owe Goudchaux a favour?"

"Look, kid, I'm working for money here -- and lots of it. There's no love lost between me and Bardon Goudchaux."

"Well, Commodore." Brecht turned to him with his hands on his hips. "Do we untie her?"

Chekov nodded, more than half certain he was going to regret this. "What did you do with the other two crew members, Mister Brecht?"

"They are lodged in what I believe used to be your cabin, Mister Chekov. No need to worry about them for a while. The next thing we need to do is to lure Goudchaux in. So -- if you don't mind -- let's switch off the cloaking device, and wait until the Black Beauty comes close enough to parley on the short range transmitter."

Brecht dropped the impromptu binders that had immobilised Morgain and rubbed her wrists for her affectionately. Chekov glanced back from killing the ship's one last defence just in time to catch sight of this little gesture. It gave him a bad feeling in his stomach. Still, he was quite surprised a moment later, as he was reaching to request an update from the damage control computer, to simultaneously hear the whine and feel the shock of a blast from an Orion phaser as it hit him solidly in the back.