Because it was completely dark in the room where he was, Chekov had a hard time determining whether or not he had regained consciousness. He was hoping he hadn't, because in this version of reality he was once more wearing manacles and was quite securely stuck to the frame of the bed he was lying on.

The ensign's heart sank as Moray Morgain stepped into the room and turned on the lights. Although temporarily blinded by the sudden illumination, he didn't need his eyes to tell him he was in her cabin.

"Hi, honey. I'm home," she announced cheerfully.

"Oh, no," Chekov groaned, keeping his eyes closed. "What happened?"

"You screwed up," Morgain informed him pleasantly as she took off her vest.

"That much I surmised," the ensign confirmed dryly.

"Never sucker-punch the hand that feeds you, doll." Morgain sat down and began to draw off her boots. "Now it looks like you've been demoted from cabin boy and junior mutineer to... cargo."

"But the numbers," Chekov protested. "I do know what they mean. You'll need my cooperation."

"Oh, and we'll get it too," she said, coming over to the bed and sitting beside him. "We may not have Mister Chen any more, but we still have all his toys."

Chekov swallowed hard as Morgain stripped the remains of his black tunic off him. "Miss Morgain, I have no intentions of..."

"Oh? Is he not in the mood?" the pirate said in her baby-talk voice, patting him on the head. "Well, darn. Guess I'll just have to do without then, huh?"

The ensign shook his head out from under her hand. "I want to speak with Brecht."

"He's busy... but maybe Khwaja's free." Morgain smiled at the way her captive's eyes went wide at this information. "Brecht has struck a truce with Khwaja now, you know. We need at least three people to run the ship. So Khwaja played his cards right and graduated from cargo to co-mutineer... And I think he's very anxious to talk to you... alone and undisturbed... for several hours."

Chekov pulled furiously at his restraints, but couldn't budge them even a fraction of an inch.

"So, I'll just call Khwaja then." Morgain reached for the comm unit. "And tell him you're eager for a chat?"

"No," the ensign choked out.

The pirate lady smiled. "Always nice to know that I'm the lesser of two evils."

Chekov closed his eyes as she ran a caressing hand across his chest.

"Now, let me see," she said, tracing a slow line with her forefinger down his bare midriff. "What was it you really hated last time?"

***

"Sauce for the goose," Brecht commented as he entered Morgain's cabin a few hours later.

The pirate lady had left the ensign much as he had secured her on the bridge earlier -- lying on his stomach on her cabin's floor with his arms locked behind him and his ankles pulled up and fastened to his wristlocks by the last shreds of his shirt. She'd also gagged him and tied one of his arms to the leg of a table so he couldn't roll into a different position.

"Sorry that I wasn't in time to save you from the old fate worse than death again, sport," Brecht apologised breezily as he unfastened the tie between Chekov's ankles and wrists and untied him from the table leg. "But I didn't know she had you. I told her to lock you in one of the cargo bays -- thinking you wouldn't want to be rooming with Khwaja for any length of time. It wasn't 'til I went there to look for you that I realised where you probably were."

Brecht helped him up to a more comfortable sitting position, but didn't release him or untie the gag.

"You see, Commodore," he said, sitting down next to him as if it were a perfectly normal scene. "When you punched me, that got some brain cells to working. And I realised that we're in the middle of Khwaja's stomping grounds. Seeing that you seem to be one to hold a grudge, I didn't think you'd be exactly enthusiastic about soliciting his help."

Chekov shook his head in a vigorous negative.

"Exactly, exactly," Brecht replied to his unspoken objections. "He's a vile one and putting ourselves temporarily in the hands of some of his cronies is a dangerous proposition -- but it's less dangerous than going toe-to-toe with Bardon Goudchaux in a crippled ship."

Although he could see the freebooter's point, the ensign still shook his head.

"That's what I thought you'd say." Brecht crossed his arms. "And in the port where we're going to be docking, it's dangerous to have someone who can't open his mouth without giving away that he's Starfleet running about loose. So you're going to cool your heels with good Doctor Esme while we put in for repairs with some close and discrete friends of Mister Khwaja."

Chekov blew a frustrated breath out of his nostrils and glared at the renegade.

"Now, don't take it that way, Commodore," Brecht soothed him, getting up and rummaging through Moray Morgain's things. "Because I do want to stay on good terms with you. After all, you're the one who's figured out the secrets of the Orlan Du."

Carrying a black jacket, Brecht returned and deactivated the locks on Chekov's ankles.

"Look on your confinement as purely a temporary measure for your own protection," the freebooter suggested as he hauled the ensign up to standing by his still bound arms and draped the jacket over his bare shoulders. "While you're in the holding cell, it'll be easier for me to keep Moray and Khwaja off your... well, away from you. And once we're under way again, I promise you'll be restored to full privileges."

Chekov had little choice but to go along as Brecht guided him towards the door with one hand on his shoulder.

"Think of it as an opportunity to double check your calculations," Brecht suggested cheerfully, leading him out into the corridor.

At the end of that passageway was the last person on this small ship Chekov wanted to run into.

"Ah!" Khwaja came forward with a gleaming smile on his face. He wrapped a large black hand around the ensign's upper arm. "Just the little animal I've been looking for."

"Ah, Khwaja," Brecht said mildly as he smiled and pulled Chekov back towards himself. "I was just going to call you. We've a little engineering problem that I..."

The other pirate did not return the smile as he tightened his grip on the ensign. "You owe me, Brecht."

"Yes." The freebooter sighed and released Chekov into Khwaja's sole control. "Yes, I do."

"Right." Khwaja shoved the ensign down the corridor in front of him.

"But, Khwaja..." Brecht stopped him by putting a hand on his shoulder. Then, as Chekov had done previously, the freebooter followed up with a powerful right to the black man's jaw. "I don't owe you that friggin' much," he said to the crumpled form on the deck as he reclaimed Chekov. "This way, Admiral."

"You're making a mistake, Brecht."

Chekov turned to find that Khwaja had a phaser trained on them.

Brecht shook his head and folded his arms. "I can't believe we're already down to pointing weapons at each other. Now, Khwaja, you're not going to make a fool of yourself over a brown-eyed boy, are you? I mean, look at him. He's not exactly rough trade, is he?"

Chekov wasn't quite sure what 'rough trade' was, but did his best not to look that way, nonetheless.

"He's not your type, mate," Brecht assured the other man. "I mean, for God's sake, we're in a port -- a port where you're known. Go spend a credit and rent a dozen like him... but leave off with this one."

Khwaja's aim didn't waver. "Either he comes with me, Brecht, or I kill him where he stands," the pirate promised grimly.

For the first time since Chekov had met him, the freebooter seemed stuck for a reply. Brecht looked slowly back and forth between the two of them.

"I do need you alive, Commodore," he apologised. "I need both of you alive..."

Khwaja grinned as he picked himself off the floor. "I knew you'd see it my way."

"...for the moment," Brecht finished. "You're making a serious mistake here, Khwaja. You're crossing me and you should know that's not a good idea."

"What's the matter, Brecht?" The pirate smiled as he pulled the ensign forward by one arm. "You decide you like him? Well, don't worry. I'm not going to hurt him. I'm going to be very nice to him."

Chekov pulled away violently, but Khwaja was ready for him. Instead of resisting, the bigger man pushed him in the direction he was pulling and tripped him. The pirate was also ready for Brecht, levelling his phaser at the freebooter as he started forward.

"Say bye-bye, Brecht." Khwaja grinned as he held the ensign down with one foot on his chest. When the freebooter didn't move, the pirate swung his phaser on the ensign. "One way or the other."

Brecht frowned. "Well, Commodore, it seems my hands are tied for the moment... Don't give Mister Khwaja any trouble. I expect you to be as cooperative as you were being with me on the bridge."

'Thanks for nothing,' Chekov thought loudly as the freebooter reluctantly backed through the 'lift doors. He did not share Brecht's confidence that he could catch Khwaja unawares the way he had done the Orion sympathiser.

The pirate grinned down at him. "Don't you just love it when everyone fights over you? All right, kitten. Will you walk, or do you want to be carried again?"

Chekov rose awkwardly without any help from his captor. As he set off down the corridor, it began to sink in what he was walking into.

'This can't be real,' he thought. 'This can't be happening to me. There has to be a way out of this.'

No way out presented itself. Despite his feelings of unreality, his bonds and the phaser in the hand of the man behind him remained quite real.

'I should provoke him to shoot me now,' the ensign decided. 'I should have shot myself while I had the disruptor... but I must remain alive. I am the only one who can do anything for Mister Scott...'

Then again, considering what Scott had gotten him into, he was beginning to feel that the next time he had an opportunity, he'd just shoot the engineer himself.

Reasoning that he had little to lose, Chekov took a deep breath and prepared to make a run for it. 'Three... Two...' he counted down silently, '...One!'

Khwaja stopped him short, grabbing a handful of the ensign's hair before he was half a pace away.

"Wrong way," he growled, shoving his captive through the door to his cabin. Khwaja marched him to a position in the centre of the room.

"Good kitty. Stay," he ordered mockingly. Keeping one eye on the ensign the pirate walked over to what turned out to be a wall safe.

Chekov took in a deep breath through his nose, refusing to give in to panic. He had to work out a strategy of some sort. If there was no hope of escape, then he at least had to figure out some way of getting through this with a shred of dignity. Brecht was right, he had to fight. He couldn't just disassociate and pretend nothing was happening to him, frustrate his tormentor by suppressing all reaction. He wondered how well that particular Vulcan technique worked. He'd have to ask Mister Spock.

"You know, they should gag your eyes, not your mouth," the pirate commented, depositing his weapon into the safe and locking it. He then stepped over and switched on his audio equipment. Unfortunately, the pirate's taste in music had not improved. "All right... no more games."

Chekov stood rigid, waiting for the right opening to attack as Khwaja moved behind him and lifted Morgain's jacket off his shoulders. The pirate clucked his tongue sympathetically as he lightly ran a finger over the bite marks on Chekov's back.

As the ensign was tensing himself to move, Khwaja unexpectedly deactivated the cuffs on his wrists. He then did something else and the cuffs came off completely.

"There." The pirate patted him on the shoulder. "Does that make you feel better?"

It made Chekov feel more worried. If Khwaja didn't want him helpless, what did he want? As he rubbed his wrists nervously, he felt strong fingers untying the gag at the back of his head, pulling at the hair that had tangled into the strip of shirt fabric. With his freedom to speak restored, the ensign found he had nothing to say.

Khwaja stepped over to a chair and threw him the material draped over it. "Put this on."

It was a shirt. One of the pirate's and several sizes too large. Another puzzling, but seemingly welcome development.

Khwaja crossed his arms and made a slow circle around him as the ensign struggled into the garment. "I suppose that you're familiar with the works of your countryman, Konstantin Stanislavsky?"

"What?" Chekov paused in rolling up the nearly knee-length sleeves. "What are you talking about?"

"Method acting," the pirate explained. "Emotion memory. I want you to remember exactly how you feel at this moment. This is the way you react around me. Okay?"

"Y... yes."

"Now, let me introduce myself." Khwaja sat down on the foot of his bed. "I'm Lieutenant Commander Ashley Hanton, Starfleet Intelligence. And before you get any ideas, I have no intention of doing one damned thing to help you. So don't kid yourself. I have a mission here. I've spent too many years building my cover to put it at risk for you. Understood? Just telling you this is far more than I should do. If you have the choice between betraying me and dying, I'd prefer you took the second option. So would Starfleet. Understood?"

Chekov nodded on cue as if he'd forgotten the gag was gone.

"Now, this idea you have about the numbers. What is it?"

"I haven't... Can I sit down?" His legs had begun to shake.

"Be my guest."

Despite Khwaja's... Hanton's new found legitimacy, Chekov pulled the chair out from the desk and sat on that rather than the bed. His heart was pounding unpleasantly as he took a moment to compose himself and order his thoughts on the subject of pirate treasure.

"From what I remember of the legend of the Orlan Du, they stole the treasure from an Orion Warlord. He pursued them and therefore the pirates developed the need to disappear for a time. The Orlan Du required a short term hiding place for their treasure that no one of them could come back and plunder while the others were still in hiding. They also did not wish for the treasure to be discovered by anyone else, of course. However, it does not seem that they were considering a long term concealment."

"Yeah."

Khwaja was poker-faced. Chekov was sure he must have thought out this much for himself, but the pirate -- Intelligence Agent -- wasn't giving anything away.

"If they had landed on a planet, or even an asteroid, their presence most probably would have been detected and recorded in some way. Orion sensor technology, even in that day, would have made it easy enough to find anything left or buried on the surface of a planet. Also, if they had left the treasure on a planet, then each of them would know the location. There would be no need for the medallion."

"Go on."

"Therefore..." An awful thought occurred to Chekov. He had been so pleased to learn that Khwaja wasn't Khwaja, he hadn't considered that the man might be lying to him. "Uh... therefore the numbers are almost certainly bearings. I think we'll find the treasure in a sensor-shielded capsule at the intersection of those bearings. The only problem is the bearings are on fixed points of some sort. The Orlan Du would have known which... uh... three points. Maybe stars. That is what must be deduced."

"Must be deduced?" Khwaja echoed. "Do you know how many stars there are in this galaxy? And then there are other galaxies. They could have sighted on those. And why three? You only need two bearings to fix a point. And..."

"They were not trying to tell us where the treasure is," the ensign reminded him. "Quite the opposite. If the Orlan Du had all been captured together or if all the parts of the medallion had gotten into the wrong hands, they wouldn't have wanted the information to be easily accessible. There must be a sixth piece of information that all the pirates knew."

The other man frowned at him in a most un-ally-like way.

Chekov cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Commander, but I do not think there is any reason to assume we can solve this puzzle. We do not even know for certain that the treasure was not found ages ago."

"Parts of it would have shown up by now," Khwaja retorted, his eyes narrowed. "And we can find it. If the Orlan Du couldn't go back for it themselves, they would have been able to sell the information, maybe bargain with it for their lives..."

For an impartial Starfleet officer, Hanton seemed reluctant to admit that he might be on a wild goose chase.

"Sir, what happened to them?" Chekov asked. "The five who had the pieces of the medallion?"

"Don't get into the habit of calling me 'sir'." Khwaja -- Chekov found he couldn't get out of the habit of thinking of him as that -- got up and began to pace restlessly. "You're a real pessimist, aren't you?"

"What does Starfleet want with this treasure anyway?"

"What?" Khwaja paused. "Oh, come on, Ensign, you know that's none of your business."

Chekov was beginning to feel increasingly certain that Khwaja was Khwaja after all. However, it seemed he was better off going along with the man's fantasy than challenging it. "What about the Orlan Du? What happened to them?"

A Starfleet Intelligence Officer would know. Khwaja plainly did not... Or maybe he just didn't choose to share the information. "I think we can find out."

"We should do more research," Chekov suggested. "The more we can find out about the Orlan Du, the more likely we are..."

Khwaja/Hanton snorted. "You think this is a Federation Starship? We don't have a library computer; I doubt you'd find anything on board more intellectual than Goudchaux' collection of pornographic novels."

"I will speak to Brecht. He has lived with the Orions."

"You won't talk to anyone about any of this," the other man ordered curtly. "Understood? And if you've got any sense, you'll stop dropping hints that you know anything. Once they're not so busy nursing the engines, someone will find the time to open you up and see if there's anything useful inside."

"If I do not know anything of use," Chekov pointed out, "they might kill me."

Khwaja/Hanton smiled coldly. "Perhaps it would be better for you... and me... if they did."

A reply to this didn't spring to mind immediately.

"So," Khwaja continued after a moment. "We have some time to kill. How good an actor are you? Are you going to be able to walk out of here looking ravished?"

"Yes," Chekov replied with double the confidence he felt.

From the other man's expression, that wasn't enough.

"I think that a little more method acting practice is in order." Khwaja picked up the cuffs from the desk. "Put those back on."

Chekov swallowed hard as he looked up at the pirate. "Why?"

"Because I'm ordering you to, Ensign."

Chekov took a good look at the cuffs before he obeyed. There was a small display on the inner surface of each which currently showed a three digit number. The code to open them? The battery level? He returned them to his wrists and snapped them shut. As the second one closed it adhered to the first.

Khwaja took him by the shoulders and drew the ensign to his feet.

"I hate to do this to you," he said with a grim smile, "but it's in the interests of Starfleet..."

***

A sudden lurch of the ship sent Chekov stumbling into the bulkhead. He steadied himself painfully. Khwaja had released his hands again and had allowed him take a shower. He'd left the ensign free afterwards.

The black man sat up and yawned. "Ah, we've arrived."

Chekov put a hand up to his face. His collision with the wall had reopened the split lip Khwaja had given him half an hour earlier.

"If I'd known you were going to do that," he drawled, "I wouldn't have had to knock you around."

"Where are we?" Chekov could barely bring himself to speak civilly to the supposed commander.

"A ship yard. Not a particularly respectable one, but discrete and efficient. They may also have access to a databank, so maybe I can answer some of your questions."

"You could take me along," Chekov suggested. Then he got an even better idea. "You could arrange to leave me here."

Khwaja merely frowned as he rose from his bed.

"I have told you all I know," the ensign insisted. "As you said yourself, it is dangerous for me to talk to your shipmates. If I am not on board, I could not endanger your cover."

Khwaja shook his head. "Not a good idea."

"Why?"

"Not at this port." Khwaja folded his arms as he met the ensign's defiant look. "Don't you believe me? Well, come on, junior. I'll take you portside and let you see for yourself. Trust me, you don't want to jump ship here. You'll be begging me to get back on board."

Chekov could hardly picture this as he followed Khwaja out into the corridor. He couldn't imagine what could be so vile about a simple shipyard that the pirate and/or Intelligence Officer should be so confident he'd prefer this ship. Finding transport back to the Federation might be a problem. Chekov decided he could work as an engineer or some other sort of technician to finance his passage. This might take... years? The ensign was still willing to give it a try.

There was an unfamiliar humming in the fabric of the ship that worried Chekov until he identified it as vibration transferred from a space station. They'd docked then. He wasn't entirely surprised since he'd seen no sign of transporters on the ship.

"Where do you think you're taking him?" Brecht stepped unexpectedly out of the 'lift and barred their way. "He's not going off ship."

Khwaja crossed his arms insolently. "Why not?"

"Use your brains, man," Brecht suggested acidly. "Don't you think he'll try to escape? Or do you think that he's charmed with you now?"

Khwaja casually shoved the ensign against a nearby bulkhead. "He knows what will happen to him if he tries."

"But that doesn't exactly change the fact that he's highly motivated to leave us, now does it?" Brecht pointed out almost sweetly, as Chekov stayed where he had been pushed with his eyes carefully on the deck. "He's a slippery one. What if he manages to get past you -- if only for a moment? Only long enough to call for help? Only long enough to open his big mouth and announce to all and sundry that we're on the trail of the Orlan Du? Do you have any idea what would happen if all your lovely friends here were to get wind of that?"

From his expression, Khwaja did. Apparently, it wasn't a pretty picture.

"Sorry, junior," he said with a shrug. "You'll have to stay here with Uncle Stuie. Well, I guess I'd better go negotiate some repair work, right?"

Brecht nodded towards the bridge. "Take Moray with you."

Khwaja smiled. "Don't you trust me?"

"I trust you about as far as I could comfortably spit a foot of your intestines," Brecht returned. "And how exactly are you intending to pay for whatever we need done?"

"I'll call in some favours, sell a little of Goudchaux's cargo..."

"Cargo?" Brecht looked surprised. "There's no tonnage in the hold."

"Well..." Khwaja reached out and tousled Chekov's hair. "He's not very heavy, is he?"

Brecht looked even less amused than the ensign was. "And just who do you think would trade dilithium for him?"

"I'm sure I could find someone," Khwaja said, a teasing tone entering his voice. "Klingons... middle men... junk dealers..."

Brecht shook his head. "You're trying my patience, mate."

"Uncle Stuie's really become attached to you, junior," Khwaja said, patting the ensign's face roughly. "You've done a good job of tricking him into thinking you're valuable enough to keep alive."

"Leave off with him, Khwaja," Brecht ordered irritably.

"Come on, Brecht." Khwaja grabbed Chekov by the back of the collar and pulled him in front of him. "You really believe this little worm knows any more about those numbers than you could work out yourself?"

Brecht frowned. "That's my affair."

Having planted the idea that Chekov knew nothing worth grilling him for, Khwaja was content to change the subject. "There's five hundred kilos of powdered Illissium in the storage lockers in Goudchaux's cabin. That should be enough."

The freebooter grunted his agreement.

Kwhaja unexpectedly picked up Chekov's wrists and pinned him to the side of the corridor. "Be good while I'm gone," he said, leaning forward and running his tongue up the ensign's cheek producing, of course, an extremely convincing display of revulsion from his captive. "See you soon, Brecht."

Chekov tugged furiously at the cuffs, knowing that it would do him no good. "That filthy..."

"Shh..." Brecht cautioned as Khwaja disappeared into the lift.

"What's Illissium?"

"A drug." Brecht frowned as he released the ensign from the wall. "Highly addictive but largely harmless. Leaves you in almost complete control of yourself but feeling like the annual budget of the Federation. Glad to see you managed to get the best out of three falls, Commodore."

Chekov quickly wiped off his cheek. "What?"

Brecht tilted his head up and examined the ensign's swollen lip. "Since you're still speaking to me at all, I assume that Khwaja has a similarly impressive set of bruises to show for his efforts. Next time, he'll not be content just to bash you around."

Chekov pulled away and lowered his eyes, remembering he was supposed to be looking 'ravished'.

Brecht put his hands on his hips. "We'll just have to see there isn't a next time, won't we? -- Not that you need to be getting any ideas. You leave Khwaja to me, understand?"

Chekov made no reply. He was somewhat concerned that if Khwaja really was Hanton then the Intelligence Agent had made a rather dangerous enemy, thanks to him.

"All right." Brecht jerked his head towards the 'lift. "Up to the bridge with you."

Chekov held out his hands. "You said full privileges..."

"I said, once we're under way," Brecht replied, giving him a firm push forward. "Now, move before I take a mind to move you myself."

Chekov did as he was told. When they emerged, open double doors opposite the lift led into an airlock. The docking spur of the station was visible through this passage way. The structure looked unfamiliar. Not Orion... Although, given that race's habit of thieving from around the galaxy, Orion 'style' was sometimes hard to pin down.

"No." Brecht turned him back towards the bridge. "Don't even think about it, lad."

The ensign dug his heels in. "Don't push me around, Mister Brecht. I want to know where we are."

"Don't you start with me too, Admiral," Brecht warned. Seeing Chekov wasn't going to move without putting up a fight, he relented after a moment. "We're at a deep space facility known as Quondar. It's non-aligned. That's to say, you don't come here unless there's nowhere else you can go. The port's in Orion space. They tolerate it... for certain financial considerations."

Brecht waited for Chekov to precede him onto the bridge.

Morgain was shutting down the bridge stations. It looked like she'd been doing some repair work on the communications console.

"Ooooo," she winced, immediately crossing to Chekov and taking him by the chin. "Not the face... not his sweet little angel face."

Chekov folded his arms and stood his ground, refusing to be intimidated by her. "As though you care."

"Oh, I do, though." She ran both forefingers in parallel down his chest. "I'm absolutely frantic to see if he left any ugly marks on the rest of your precious little body."

Brecht rolled his eyes as he pushed between them on his way to the Science console. "I'm afraid I still don't understand the secret of your appeal, Admiral. I'm beginning to fear that it's something in the air and that soon I'll come down with it and be drooling over you like an adolescent like the rest of this lot."

"Don't knock it until you've tried it, Stu." Morgaine grinned as she put her hands around the ensign's waist.

Chekov was in the middle of pulling away when the door to the corridor opened revealing Khwaja.

The supposed Intelligence Officer leaned against the frame of the door. "I found us an engineer. A good one."

He moved aside to let the engineer enter the bridge. Mister Scott raised his eyebrows at the sight of Chekov and grinned broadly. "Ah, now lad. I didn't expect to see you here."

***

Chekov opened his mouth and nothing came out. He wanted to say so many things, he couldn't prioritise. Scott stepped into the breach for him.

"When I woke up on your ship, Mister Brecht, and my old friend, Bardon Goudchaux suggested I join him in looking for a little Orion gold, I thought to myself, well, I've got two weeks leave. Why not?"

Chekov's mouth stayed open. Scott might have leave, but four hundred and thirty-six other people, not to mention himself, had probably had their leave plans unilaterally cancelled.

"After all," the engineer continued cheerfully, "it's not often you get the chance to take up with old friends and pastimes."

Chekov shut his mouth, since to open it any wider would invite ridicule.

"And I see you've decided to come along for the ride, Mister Chekov?"

"I... I was kidnapped, Mister Scott," Chekov explained disbelievingly. "I am not here of my own free will."

Scott smiled indulgently. "I cannae believe you'd pass up the chance of a great adventure like this one, lad, especially when I can see you're already good friends with our companions."

The ensign realised that Moray Morgain's hands were still ticklishly encircling his waist.

"I'm no pirate," he insisted indignantly, disentangling himself and holding out his arms for emphasis. "And these people are no friends of mine."

"He's such a serious one," Scott apologised to the pirates as he stepped forward and deftly did whatever was necessary to remove the cuffs. For some reason he put them in his pocket. "Can ye not take a joke, Mister Chekov?"

Scott, the ensign now noticed, was even further out of uniform than himself. The engineer had on Orion-style loose fitting black pants and tunic. Obviously he'd raided Brecht's wardrobe. The baggy cut accommodated the difference in size. Seeing him like that, Chekov found it less difficult to believe Goudchaux's insinuations about the Scotsman's past. That thought raised another question...

"Where are Goudchaux, and Chen?" Brecht asked for him.

Scott smiled slyly. Chekov felt his jaw relax again and clamped it shut. He'd gotten used to thinking of the engineer as almost an extension of the Enterprise -- occasionally bloody minded but not a player in his own right. Now he seemed to be moving into the spotlight, metamorphosing into a principal -- and a disconcertingly villainous one.

"They were -- detained." In response to the universal expressions of dissatisfaction that greeted this evasion, he continued. "Goudchaux was having problems with the warp drive phasing on your ship, Brecht. Nearly shook the crystals to splinters. But I was able to sort him out and get him here for repairs. He was so grateful, he... allowed me to get control of the sweet lady. So here I am."

"Isn't it..." Chekov began.

"...a strange coincidence, that two ships of entirely different design should start experiencing misphasing while you're aboard, Scott?" Brecht shot Chekov a look that said 'I'll ask the questions.'

"Occasional coincidences are evidence that the laws of chance are operating properly," the engineer said, savouring one of Spock's aphorisms and somehow making it sound thoroughly Gaelic.

Brecht smiled but somehow Chekov didn't think he meant it.

Khwaja, impatient with small-talk, pushed past Morgain to confront Brecht. "He's got Goudchaux locked up on the 'Beauty, Brecht. We can unload him here or take him with us. Trouble with leaving him is, he knows as much as we do. We'd be able to keep an eye on him easier if he was here. He could get another ship..."

"Paying for it with what?," Brecht objected. "He'll have to have up front money in a port like this."

Morgain shrugged. "You know Goudchaux, Stu. He'll have something on someone."

Brecht took in a deep breath. "All right. We take Goudchaux and Chen -- but they stay locked in the hold. I'm willing to confer with them and maybe even split with them, but I'm not anxious to wind up with Bardon Goudchaux's knife nestled between my shoulder blades."

There was no rebuttal to this from his crew.

"Come on, Admiral," Brecht said, taking the ensign by his shoulder. "It's time for you to get back to your old quarters too."

"But you said..." Chekov protested.

"Then maybe I've changed my mind," Brecht said sharply.

Chekov backed away towards Scott. "Leave me here," he demanded. "At this port."

"I'm afraid I'd have to veto that notion." Scott shook his head. "The lad may not be much use for anything, but he'd be in touch with Starfleet within hours."

"Mister Scott!" the ensign protested, noting however that from the engineer's estimate, he'd be able to reach Federation contacts much more quickly than the weeks or months he'd assumed it would take.

Brecht crossed his arms. "Either you come with me or I let Khwaja escort you."

The ensign looked back and forth between the two men whose actions he'd thought he could at least predict, amazed to find himself betrayed on either side.

"It does seem a waste to lock him up, Brecht," Scott said. "I could use an assistant. I'm sure I could find ways to keep him busy enough to keep him out of trouble."

"And what about after we find the treasure?" Morgain asked. "Are you going to want us to pat him on the head and send him back to Starfleet?"

"He's not a dull lad." Scott's hand was heavy on the ensign's shoulder. "He can figure out for himself what will happen to him... if he doesn't learn to cooperate and keep his mouth shut."

Chekov swallowed hard, having no doubt the engineer's implied threat to his life was real.

Moray Morgaine shook her head. "I don't buy it and I'm not willing to risk it. He's cargo, Scotty. Right, Khwaja?"

"Now, just a moment," Chekov protested as Khwaja nodded to her in agreement. "I won't be locked up again. I do know what those numbers mean, but I will say nothing if I am treated as less than an equal."

Khwaja snorted contemptuously. "You don't know anything, junior. Let me put the kitten in its box, Brecht."

Chekov took a protective step backwards. "I warn you, without the information I have, you will only run in circles, burning your crystals to shards..."

"Aye, okay, Brecht. In the hold with him." Scott's voice held a dismissive note the ensign hadn't heard since he'd been banished from Engineering for fouling up the Scotsman's still. "And you'd better put these back on him..."

"Mister Scott!" Despite Chekov's protests, the engineer even obligingly held the ensign in place while Khwaja and Brecht made short work of putting the cuffs back on him.

"Don't 'mister' me, you young fool," Scott said coldly, clicking the ensign's wrists together and pushing him into Brecht's hands.

"Come on, Admiral." The freebooter hustled him into the 'lift. "No need to waste time on fond farewells."

Scott didn't even spare the ensign so much as a backwards glance before the 'lift doors closed between them.

"Well," Brecht said as they began their descent. "That was a nasty surprise, wasn't it?"

Chekov didn't answer. He tried to collect himself. Despite his convincing performance as a pirate, the ensign knew Scott had to be carrying out a plan of some sort... He had to be... The alternative was unthinkable.

"Brace yourself, lad," Brecht said, drawing out his small phaser-like weapon almost casually. "Here comes another one."

***

When he awoke, Chekov found himself lying in what looked like a very small room in a Turkish harem. Brightly coloured pillows were scattered about the carpeted floor. The walls were upholstered in a vivid red material with purple and gold patterns running through it. Other than these exotic details, the chamber was no different to the cell he'd been confined in on Goudchaux's ship. Like that room, his new home had no apparent exit. "Where am I?"

"I can think of a better question." Brecht's voice sounded like it was being filtered through an intercom and coming from... the ceiling?

Looking up, Chekov saw the freebooter's smiling face on a screen above him. A very logical design, really. The ceiling was high enough that an averaged-sized occupant of this cell could do nothing more harmful than throw pillows at it. The ensign could now see from the tears in the material on the walls that a previous prisoner -- a five fingered being with very sharp fingernails from the looks of it -- had made a valiant effort to do more. "Brecht, what am I doing here?"

"Very little," the other man replied easily. "Welcome to the Black Beauty, Admiral. You're in the guest room. Sorry about the poor condition of the decor, but the last guest entertained here was a lovely little Orion lass who was even less happy with the accommodations than you seem to be."

"Mister Brecht..." Chekov began hotly, sitting up.

"The better question that I was thinking of," the freebooter interrupted, "is what has happened to your old friend Mister Scott? Why has he suddenly stopped being the loyal, upstanding officer you believed him to be?"

Chekov crossed his arms. This was a rather good question. "I suppose he approves of you imprisoning me here," he replied sourly.

"Frankly, he doesn't know... at least not yet. I have employed a neat little trick of Goudchaux's to convince him and our other two friends that I put you in the stasis box back on that ship. Don't look so glum, Admiral. The box is probably the safest place on that vessel. You'd probably survive even if the ship blew up around you."

There was something to what the freebooter was saying. Despite the harshness of his words and actions, Scott hadn't actually done anything to endanger him.

"You see the problem," Brecht continued. "Whether or not your friend Scott has fallen from the path of right, in your heart of hearts, I can see that you don't believe he has. Therefore he still has in you a strong potential ally. All he has to do is convince you that he's still on the side of the angels and you'll follow him loyally to the end. That gives him an advantage over the rest of us who have no one we can trust."

"But you and Miss Morgain are... were... friends?"

Brecht rolled his eyes. "Miss Morgain and I are friends in about the same way that you and she are friends. Moray's become a little eccentric about physical intimacy. I know her story. I know why she does the things she does, but that doesn't make me like them... or her. Let me give you a clue, Admiral. Despite what she said to us on the bridge, I know she's not just in this for the money."

Chekov frowned. He had gotten the feeling all along that Brecht and Morgain were communicating things between themselves that they weren't saying aloud.

"I, on the other hand," Brecht continued, "am in this for the money and only the money. That's why you should trust me. I don't give a tinker's damn about the Orlan Du and their treasure, but I've got to return something to the people who sent me here with that cursed shard... and it's pretty obvious that I'm not going to be bringing them your Mister Scott as planned."

Chekov bit his lip. All of what the freebooter had said seemed like the truth, but after the last several days with the pirates, it made him very nervous for people to start telling him things that sounded like the truth.

"This is my plan," Brecht said. "You said we needed two ships to find the treasure. Fine. We have two ships now. Khwaja doesn't think you can think up anything that I couldn't on my own. Fine. You tell me your ideas and they become my own. We find this damned treasure and split the proceeds. If your Mister Scott is only playing a little game with us, he'll want you back. In that case, I'll take the liberty of using you to negotiate my own safe return. If he's truly turned on you, then I'll see you back to Federation territory myself -- minus a few useless memories -- and none of them on the other ship need be any the wiser. Now, you couldn't ask a fairer deal than that, could you?"

Chekov didn't reply. He looked at the brightly coloured padded walls of his cell. If Brecht was in the habit of smuggling sentient cargo, it was likely this room would be shielded from conventional sensors in some way. He had no way of communicating with Scott... if he even wanted to communicate with Scott...

"Come on, Admiral," Brecht said soothingly. "Just tell me what those numbers mean."

Chekov shook his head slowly. "I need to think."

"Oh, well." The freebooter sighed and manipulated a few controls off screen. "I suppose there's no need to rush you. You've had a trying day."

The lights in the chamber began to dim. There was a hissing noise from the unseen air ducts.

"Brecht..." Chekov began uncertainly. A sweet odour filled the little room. It didn't smell like a conventional tranquilliser, however... "Brecht, I warn you... if... you... try..."

"Good night, Admiral," the freebooter said as the ensign fell back among the pillows.