Chekov was awakened by a loud buzzing noise. He immediately noted to his displeasure that he was still in the padded red cell on Brecht's ship. The noise seemed to be coming from everywhere at once and getting progressively louder. The ensign pressed his hands to his ears and vainly looked for the source. As he did so, the noise suddenly stopped.
"Well, you're certainly a sound sleeper." Brecht's voice came from the viewscreen on the ceiling. "I'll give you that. And not much of one for talking in your sleep."
"Brecht!" Chekov's short term memory suddenly focused. "You drugged me."
"Just a touch of Tanctin to loosen your tongue," the freebooter replied, smiling his familiar ironic smile. His eyes, however, were colder than usual. "For all the good it did either of us."
Tanctin was a sodium pentathol derivative often used by interrogators. It was used so regularly, in fact, that the ensign had undergone training that practically guaranteed he wouldn't succumb to it.
"I figure I failed to get any information out of you for either of two reasons," Brecht theorised. "First, it could be a little Tanctin isn't enough to put the grease to an Academy boy's tongue. This being the case, I began to think perhaps I should renew my friendship with my old chum Chen."
The ensign swallowed. He had less confidence in the superiority of Command training over Goudchaux's henchman's impressive array of interrogation equipment. At the very least, he was absolutely certain he wanted no part in the experiment.
"The second possibility," Brecht continued, "is that you really don't know anything. You've just been playing me for a fool. The babbling I did manage to get out of you tends to support this second conclusion."
Chekov decided it was best to remain silent.
"Now let me tell you, my young friend." Brecht's assumed geniality was assuming a harsher edge by the minute. "No one makes a fool of Stuart Brecht without regretting it. I have a soft place in my heart for innocent bystanders... but you're neither, even if you think you are at the moment. I'm a breath away from being at the end of my patience with you. I've considered turning you over to Chen just for my own amusement. I've even thought of transferring you to Goudchaux's cell just to see how long you'd last."
Despite the considerations for his safety the freebooter had demonstrated in the past, there was no doubting he meant these threats quite literally.
"Now, if you don't fancy seeing yourself carved up like a Christmas goose, you'd better be straight with me."
Chekov chewed his lower lip. "I need more information before I can draw any reliable conclusions," he admitted slowly.
Brecht blew a long breath out through his nose. "Somehow I had the feeling you'd say something like that. Another bit of worm to keep the greedy fish snapping at the empty hook, eh? What sort of information?
"I need to know more about flight capabilities, sensor technology, political alignments..."
A panel in the wall opposite him slid open, revealing an unfamiliar electronic device linked up clumsily to a cheap translator with a small screen.
"This is all I have to give you," Brecht said as the ensign picked the assemblage up.
The display, when he'd activated the unit, looked like a book cover with all the lettering slid down to one side. Chekov puzzled it out. "The Child's Nursery Book of Tales of the Orlan Du? You must be joking."
"It's more than it looks," Brecht assured him. "Read on."
"This facsimile reproduction of a near-contemporary account of the adventures of the Orlan Du has been annotated by Teacher Markris Golton, a lifelong student of the actual physical artefacts of the time of the Orlan Du," the ensign read aloud. "He has taken great pains to render these accounts comprehensible to the modern Orion child."
"I figured you were at least on that level."
"Brecht." Chekov spread his hands. "This isn't going to begin to..."
"Let me be frank with you," the freebooter interrupted sharply. "You don't have the time or indulgence left with me to argue about it. I'll give you a few hours with this, but at the end of that time, you will have your one final chance to give me conclusive proof that you are worth keeping alive. Do I make myself clear?"
The ensign nodded resignedly. "Quite clear."
"Right." Brecht pressed another control and a second panel opened on a tray of food. "Here's something for you, if you're hungry. The sanitary facilities are... Well, since you're such a clever lad, I'll let you find them yourself. Study hard."
After the screen above him went dark, Chekov twisted his wrist inside one of his manacles to try and see if there was some way of inputting the codes he had read on their inner surface. If only Mister Scott had been able to give him some clue, some reassurance that he could sit back and let the engineer make the next move... But he hadn't. Scott hadn't made any sort of effort to do so. Chekov had to assume he was on his own. Whatever the engineer was doing, he probably hadn't expected Chekov to be dragged into the equation.
For the moment it looked like there was nothing for the ensign to do other than read Brecht's fairy tale book. He picked it up with a sigh.
The story of the Orlan Du started, as he expected, with a series of fantastical and largely contradictory adventures of the three brothers. They appeared to be rogues, heroes and comedians by turns. Each episode was told from a different point of view and without any mention of the other two members of the eventual fivesome.
Chekov guessed that this was more or less an anthology of folk tales from the early days of Orion space capability. It seemed strange. Records of the equivalent, shorter period in Earth history were very complete. Orion culture, though, was less stable, less based on information, and more clannish and partisan.
He began to skip pages, looking for the real story to begin with the theft of the treasure.
Now, the Orlan Du seemed transformed. The three brothers were still only roughly sketched, as if left blank for whatever Orion child read the story to impose his own image on the chosen hero, but the other two... Chekov stopped, wondering if Brecht was feeding something else nasty into the atmosphere of his cell again as he went back to re-read the last few pages. The text didn't say so in so many words, but it seemed clear that the navigator and pilot were human -- or at least more human than Orion. Chekov tried to remember whether any of the humanoid races around that part of the galaxy had been space-capable that long ago. The Vulcans had been, but hadn't ventured that far. The characters didn't really come across as Vulcan though. It was odd that Orion tradition, always so contemptuous of humankind, should have allowed these two shadowy historical figures to retain their human characteristics.
Also, while up to this point the brothers had been devious and quick to take advantage of weaker victims, they'd been limited to the technology of their era. Now, they seemed to have acquired a ship that was faster than anyone else's, more manoeuvrable, impervious to attack and capable of vanishing at a moment's notice.
The book threw some light on the treasures, too. Jewels, ancient family treasures plundered from Orions and aliens alike, were lavishly described. There were also mentions of mysterious alien artefacts with useful and irreproducible capabilities. Devices that would revive the dead, magical elixirs, transporters, a propulsion system faster than the Orion's primitive proto-warp drive, weapons... Even taken with a pinch of salt, it rather looked as if the Orlan Du might have stumbled at some time on the wreckage of an advanced space-craft and plundered it for saleable technology. That, after all, would explain their own ship's increased abilities.
It was interesting, comforting even, because all this was beginning to sound like something Chekov could imagine that Starfleet would have an interest in. Putting Hanton in place to monitor the first rumours that someone was trying to reassemble the medallion... Letting Scott get involved, both as bait to bring Brecht in and as support for Hanton at a later stage... Whether Chekov's involvement had been deliberate or accidental, it was all beginning to make a tortured sort of sense.
The medallion's history was referred to. The three brothers seemed to have traded their part of the secret for their lives, in some encounter with the aggrieved owners of the stolen treasure. It wasn't clear whether the Orion lords had kept their side of the bargain: the brothers were simply never heard from again. Of their pilot and navigator, there was even less on record. What puzzled Chekov greatly was that five individuals could trust each other through a complex and risky jewel heist and then apparently no further. It didn't make sense. Had there been a falling out, a betrayal, that made the medallion necessary?
If two of the Orlan Du were humanoid, then perhaps he wasn't overly optimistic as he tried to recreate what he would have done in their position and apply it to the numbers. The two weren't Terran humans, obviously, but leaving that aside for the moment, he'd have given a location with reference to Earth... If he could work out the likely home planet of the two humanoids loose in Orion space three thousand years ago -- along with a radio signal that would bring the treasure inside its capsule to him once he got to the specified location... Easy.
He had to translate the reference system they used to give a location and then identify which was the reference and which the radio signal. He took the easy option for the moment, just to check that it could work. The first two numbers were the location, according to the system he used every day as a Starfleet navigator. The third, his birthday, could then be the radio signal. After all, you couldn't very well choose a location that happened to coincide with your birthday, but a radio signal could be generated to fit any given set of numbers: the first three digits giving the frequency in megahertz, the last six the binary code which would activate the pod containing the treasure. He idly worked out the location. It turned out, as near as he could tell, plumb in the middle of Orion space.
Chekov felt a tiny thrill of excitement, then shook his head at himself. He was getting as desperate and gullible as the pirates. That system of bearings hadn't been invented three hundred years ago, let alone three thousand. It was just a coincidence. Like the inclusion of his birthday.
He went back to the text. The book was silent on the final fate of the treasure of the Orlan Du. A brief postscript by Teacher Golton linked the fable to the contemporaneous Orion Wars of Treachery, in which the great houses had ceased their tradition of cooperation and begun fighting amongst themselves. Popular belief was that the five shards were the cause of the trouble although historians preferred theories of economic pressures and excessively expansionist policies.
Chekov switched the reader off and took the tray of now very cold food out of the still open chute. He sat down on the cushions and picked unenthusiastically at his congealed food. The question now was what to tell Brecht. The Orlan Du -- whatever else one might say against them -- trusted one another. That much was apparent from their conduct prior to the theft. Therefore it was probable that the medallion was a blind. That might even have been the main point of the exercise -- a deliberate device to wreck the delicate alliance of Orion houses that kept both jealous outsiders and impatient younger sons from realising their ambitions.
Chekov doubted that Brecht was going to be pleased to hear that -- other than inspiring a brief flight of fantasy on his part -- the text contained no clues to the whereabouts of the treasure, and that the warlords who had captured the brothers had probably recovered it thousands of years ago. When one looked at the evidence objectively, it was quite plausible that the treasure of the Orlan Du was nothing more than an elaborate hoax.
However, like the miller's daughter in the fairy tale, the ensign was now trapped by his own reckless boasting. Instead of one greedy king, Chekov had seven pirates waiting for him to turn straw into gold.
He nearly dropped his tray in surprise when one of the walls of his prison slid unexpectedly open. Esme, about whom he'd nearly forgotten, was standing in the revealed doorway. Her eyes roamed over his cell. "Thought I'd find you in the bridal suite," she said drily.
Chekov carefully closed his mouth and took a deep breath. "What do you want?"
"To ease my conscience," the medic replied, tossing him a bundle. "Change into these."
It turned out to be clothing -- stolen from Brecht's closet if one judged by the colour and size.
Chekov looked at them blankly. He couldn't figure out what sort of torture this was a prelude to. "Why should I?"
"Because I'm going to let you go."
"Why?" Chekov repeated cautiously, although he was encouraged enough to begin to shoulder out of Khwaja's outsize cast-off and into Brecht's.
"Because the last one's name was Richard," she replied cryptically. "And he had brown eyes too."
"They may kill you for this, you know," the ensign pointed out, changing into a baggy pair of maroon-coloured trousers.
She shrugged. "I'm dying anyway."
He cinched his borrowed pants in as tightly as he could with the wide belt she'd provided. With a red nose, he reflected, he'd be able to to blend in with any passing circus. Looking down, he remembered his manacles. Somehow, he didn't fancy starting off his new life in Orion space looking like a refugee from an S & M tri-D. "What about these?"
"Of course. Come here." She reached out and clicked the bonds off his wrists, then knelt and did the same for his ankles.
"How does that work?"
"Anyone else can pull them open," she explained. "If you're wearing them, you can't."
"What about making them magnetic?"
"You need a remote. Or access to the security system on Goudchaux's Nell." A smile crossed the old woman's face as she examined the cuffs. "Looks like you missed a trick here."
"What?"
"Never mind," she replied, discarding them. "We have to hurry."
"How did you know I wasn't in stasis?" he asked as he followed her into the corridor of Brecht's ship.
"Mm? Because I've worked that particular trick for Goudchaux a hundred times. Now, don't hang about when I let you out. Goudchaux's Nell is docked in the same bay as this one. Brecht only let me come over here because I convinced him I needed some medical supplies that would cost an arm and a leg on the station."
She led him as far as the docking lock and unfastened the hatch for him.
Chekov hesitated. "I... I'm not sure about this... Mister Scott..."
The old woman smiled. A genuine smile looked oddly unfamiliar on her. "Don't worry about Scott. I'll take care of him. Now, off you go. Hurry."
The hatch was swinging open. Tantalizing, frightening freedom beckoned through the widening gap.
"What do you mean?"
"Quit asking questions," she said, giving him a little push forward, "and go!"
Chekov found himself outside in the docking tunnel with the hatch closing on him. A dozen things he still needed to know lay on the other side, but there seemed to be no turning back now. He moved cautiously forward, since that was the only direction open to him. The ensign was not at all sure that this was where he wanted to be. As little as he trusted the man, Khwaja's threats and hints about this port were echoing ominously inside his brain. There was, however, no point in standing around waiting to be recaptured. He'd get in contact with Starfleet and/or get away from this place as quickly as possible.
Chekov squared his shoulders and set off down the corridor that served the various docking bays in this sector at a brisk pace. He was relieved to see that Stuart Brecht's bird of paradise taste in clothing was nothing unusual here. No one gave a young human so attired a second glance. The ensign was almost beginning to feel at ease as he made his way towards the hub of what he correctly guessed was a concentrically arranged space station of considerable size and population.
The scale of the place surprised him. Far from being the filthy den of unspeakable vice he'd been led to expect, the port seemed quite civilised. The passageways were clean and well-kept. The recycled air was fresher than on a few Federation-run deep space stations he'd visited.
The broad corridors eventually brought him to a large, well-used concourse.
When Chekov paused to take stock, a hand came down on his shoulder. He didn't understand the question that went along with this gesture. It was asked in Orion. The ensign took the precaution of smiling apologetically at the ominously large uniformed guard who had asked it. "I'm sorry. I don't speak..."
"Who are you with?" The guard switched effortlessly to Standard, implying that this station saw a significant stream of spacefarers from outside Orion territory. Another good sign.
"Who am I with?" Chekov repeated uncomprehendingly. "Other than you?"
"Oh, a wise guy, huh?" The guard smiled unpleasantly. "Come on, where's your ticket?"
"My ticket?" Chekov realised with a sudden panic that he had absolutely no identification of any kind on him.
The guard regarded him critically. "You don't look like you're paying for your own water and air."
"Well, you see... my ship is docked for repairs. I was only..."
"Which ship?" the guard demanded implacably.
This was another question without an easy answer. "Well, uhm... it's the... uh..."
"Having problems with your memory, huh?" the Orion asked sympathetically. "Or is it something else? Like, maybe you jumped ship?"
Chekov was getting the feel that his taste of freedom was about to be choked off after a mere nibble. "Well, uhm..."
"Fifty credits and I'll let you turn around and walk back where you came from," the guard offered.
"That's very generous of you, I'm sure, but unfortunately..."
"Oh, I see." The guard took Chekov by the right arm while he drew a pair of Orion-style security cuffs from one of his pockets. "In that case..."
"But, officer... I haven't... I mean, if you will only allow me to..."
"So, you've jumped ship?" the Orion said amiably as he fastened the cuffs around Chekov's wrists. "Then welcome to Quondar. No currency for facilities? No problem. We'll find you work. Just come with me."
"But, I..." Chekov began, but then decided he was only wasting breath. There was no use talking until he could come up with a reasonable explanation of some sort.
The guard twisted his stun stick through the linking chain a couple of times, then pulled the unwilling ensign with him through the thickening crowd.
Chekov racked his brains for a plausible story he could use to get himself out of this situation. The only thing that occurred to him though, was how utterly humiliating it was to be paraded down a public thoroughfare in restraints like a common criminal. It didn't matter to him that no one seemed to be taking any particular note.
The bright corridors gave way to poorly maintained and lighted passageways that were filled with a babble of unhappy sounding voices.
"Come on." The burly Orion transferred his grip to the back of Chekov's collar and guided him less than gently into a small office.
A jaded looking Orion who might have been roughly Chekov's age sat behind the room's only desk. He was perusing the text accompanying the small holographic still of a young, voluptuous, unclad Orion female in a rather unlikely situation with two Tellarites that was being projected from the tiny reader that sat to one side of a larger computer terminal on his desk.
"Sit," Chekov's captor ordered, pushing him down into a chair.
"Name?" The Orion behind the desk barely glanced up as he flipped off the reader and activated the main computer terminal.
"Pa... ah. I mean, uhm..." Chekov stopped himself from automatically giving his correct name. The pirates had little more than that and a general description to go on if they were to try to locate him.
"He's having problems with his memory," the guard explained for him. "He can't even remember the name of the ship he jumped."
The younger Orion gave him a disdainful look. "Well, the poor stupid bastard. So what do you want me to put down? Pa-ah-I-mean-uhm?"
"Peterson," Chekov lied, meeting the man's gaze evenly. There were, after all, limits to what these Security men could do to him -- as corrupt as they seemed to be. Despite the way he was being treated, he was no criminal and if he kept his mouth closed, there was little to connect him to Goudchaux or Brecht's ships. The most it seemed they could prosecute him for was vagrancy.
His interviewer smiled. "And I thought it was going to be Smith. Okay, Peterson, how long have you been here?"
'Definitely vagrancy,' Chekov decided. That wasn't so bad. Such a minor offence wouldn't carry a sentence of more than a few days of incarceration or punitive work assignments. His heart sank at the prospect of spending time in an Orion jail cell... and for vagrancy of all things; a charge of drunk and disorderly he might have borne better. Vagrancy was so unworthy of a Starfleet officer... At any rate, such a fate had to be better than what he was running away from. Anything would be. "Not so long."
"How many days of air and water do you owe?" the officer clarified.
Ten minutes' worth was the sensible answer. The only problem was that the truth might narrow down the number of ships he could have come from in the event they were determined to send him back. "Uh...two days."
"We'll just round that up to a five-day," the Orion said, typing rapidly. "Okay, Peterson?"
"But I..."
"Any contraband to declare? Communicable diseases? Been to any indexed worlds in the last nine periods?"
"No..."
"Okay." The Orion slid a sheet of thin plastic with a few lines of Orion script on it across the table. "Right palm on the bottom of the page, Peterson."
In case these instructions were too much for Chekov to process, the guard who had brought him here considerately jerked one of the ensign's hands into place with his palm pressed flat against the matt surface.
"What is this?" Chekov asked as the sheet warmed briefly, taking a permanent record of his print.
"Just an identity record, Peterson," the interviewer explained, retrieving it with an ersatz smile. "So that when we find your body, we'll know not to charge you for any more air."
Chekov tried to cheat the Orion out of any indication that he had been in the least bit unnerved by that last statement... but wasn't entirely sure he succeeded.
"Right." The interviewer fed the sheet into a scanner. "Unauthorised entrant 00064783. You have thirty days in which to find an employer who will pay your life support. During that time you will be available for hire at all times to pay off your debt to the Station for unticketed air and water. At the end of the grace period, you are liable to summary deportation."
"Deportation?" Chekov repeated. "To where?"
"Off the Station, Peterson." The interviewer shrugged as he closed the file and deactivated his terminal. "It's up to you where you go after that."
"Yeah." The other Security man grinned ghoulishly as he hauled Chekov to his feet. "Most of them just... hang around outside, if you catch my drift." The Orion laughed. "Hey, did you get that? Drift... That was a good one, wasn't it?"
"Right." The interviewer jerked one thumb towards the door as he flicked his tiny holo-projector on again. "Put him in the cage."
***
The 'cage' was a large security cell. It looked like it was designed to comfortably hold about twenty men. It also looked like it was now accommodating nearer to fifty. Half a dozen Klingons laid in expansive postures of sleep on the benches around the wall. The more timorous races had resigned themselves to standing or sitting on the floor. Chekov counted about fifteen humans -- most were mature males with nondescript, weathered features. There were also Orions, Andorians, Tellarites and a single green-tinged alien who could have been a Vulcan or a Romulan.
The shove that the guard used to propel Chekov into the cell sent the ensign stumbling into a group of Andorians loitering near the entrance.
"Excuse m..." Before the apology was past his lips, two of the Andorians violently shoved him towards a seated group of humans, causing him to trip over something -- or someone -- and sprawl head-first into their midst.
His fellow beings received him eagerly. Moving like a well coordinated unit, several of them held his arms and legs while others went through every pocket in his clothes including a few he hadn't even suspected were there.
"Already been turned over today," one of his new roommates complained.
"Or maybe he stashed it before he was caught," another opined.
Pinning his arms in a brutal full-Nelson, the human in whose hands he'd ended pulled Chekov up into a seated position facing a grizzled male of perhaps sixty, whose grey-brown complexion looked unwashed rather than tanned.
"Hello, new boy," this man greeted him. "Where did you stash your gold? Didn't they warn you to keep enough to pay when you got in here?"
"Pay?" Chekov gasped, struggling to regain his breath. "For what?"
"In here, you have to pay Smith for protection." The man tapped his chest and smiled. "And I'm Smith."
Chekov surveyed the hardened faces around him resentfully. This station was certainly a dreadfully expensive place. One couldn't even rot in jail for free. "I don't have any gold. I would not be here if I had access to any currency."
"Well, that's too bad." Smith drew a small knife out of his ragged clothing. At his signal, one of his comrades pulled the ensign's head up, exposing his throat. "You'll find that in here..." Smith traced a light line across Chekov's jugular. "...protection is a useful -- although expensive -- service. Something you just won't be able to live without, understand?"
"I understand," Chekov choked quietly.
"The next time you're out, you'll remember to bring back a little for old Smith, won't you?"
"Yes," Chekov replied, careful not to jostle the blade. "Certainly."
"Yeah." Smith tucked his knife back into his clothing and drew back his fist. "You'll remember."
Held as he was, there was nothing Chekov could do but turn his head so the blow would catch him on the left cheek. The next landed on his jaw. Smith's comrades continued to restrain him long enough afterwards to make sure the ensign remembered that he was outnumbered by at least fifteen to one and that he knew for certain that at least one of those fifteen was armed. When he was finally released, Chekov swiped at his nose, realising too late that he smeared blood across his face by doing so. The cut on his lip had also reopened.
He wondered if it were only that knife that gave Smith the right to be Godfather of this gulag mafia. If he had any real power, it was unlikely that he'd be sitting on the floor, letting the Klingons hog bench space. Smith was at the centre of the group of humans. Perhaps his power was limited to that species. The ensign wondered if he'd fare better among aliens -- or even at the boundaries of Smith's little empire. Not that it mattered. He didn't intend to stay here long or ever come back.
"Now." Smith sat back on his heels. "Since you can't pay, what else can you do?"
"Back off! Back off!" The call echoed in several languages as a group of armed guards entered the cell. Inmates scattered before the guards' studded boots like startled fish as a few of them waded into the prisoners' midst and began hauling individuals to their feet.
"You, outside." One of the guards jerked a man a few paces away from the ensign up by the arm and shoved him towards the door. "And you... and you..."
Chekov held his breath as the Orion paused, surveying the group. It was hard to tell if it were better to go or stay in this case.
"You too." Almost as an afterthought, the guard grabbed the ensign and pushed him after the others.
Chekov was the last prisoner to exit before the energy barrier was re-activated. He and the others were lined up for inspection along the wall beside the cell. A woman in a skin-tight one piece suit with a mirrored surface stood eyeing the ragged assemblage before her critically. Glancing down the row, the ensign realised that all of the younger human males had been pulled for her inspection.
She sniffed disdainfully. "Is this the best you can offer?"
"Hey, you know what time it is. All the good ones have already been hired out," the guard next to Chekov replied, then pushed the ensign forward by his shoulder. "This one's new."
Realising that this was a prospective employer, Chekov self-consciously swiped at his bloody nose again and tried to look presentable. At her nod, he was escorted forward. Her eyes travelled slowly up and down his body. He gave her a careful, encouraging smile around his swollen lip.
"And what are you able to do?" she asked unsmilingly. "Anything useful? I need someone to move some cargo and clean up the holds. Are you a hard worker?"
"Yes, ma..." He stopped himself from giving a military response. "I will work hard."
She turned back to the Orion. "New in? He's pretty desperate to hook up with someone. Are you sure he isn't in line for the airlock?"
"New in today. A full thirty day run. If you want to take him, he's got five days air to pay."
"Ten," another of the guards broke in."
"Oh, yeah. Ten days to pay."
"Yeah, right." The woman rolled her eyes, then turned her back on them and strolled to the head of the line.
Chekov was unceremoniously ushered back to his place. Several of the other potential hirelings reacted as he had, straightening their backs and looking the woman in the eye. Others just slumped, seeming to have given up. By and by, she made her way to the end of the line and her original choice.
"Seven days to pay, you say?" she asked the Orion next to him.
The guard shrugged. "Yeah. That's close enough."
"Okay," the woman replied, then walked away again. This time, however, the guard pushed Chekov forward to follow her. The rest of the men were hustled back into the cage. He and the guard followed the woman out of the detention area and into the Security Station proper. The Orion stopped him from following her into one of the offices. The guard indicated with a shove that he was to wait standing against the opposite wall.
"What will I..." Chekov ventured after a moment.
"Shut up," the Orion replied.
Taking that as a fairly clear explanation of his current status, the ensign contented himself with waiting quietly, doing what he could to stop the slight bleeding from his lip and nose.
At length the woman reappeared, tucking a credit chip back into her suit and carrying a sheet of plastic. She dismissed the guard with a gold coin, then turned to Chekov. She gave him another long, appraising look and consulted the sheet of plastic. "Peterson, right?"
The ensign was puzzled until he remembered that was his assumed name. "Uh... yes."
She smiled fractionally. "Right," she said, before turning to go.
Chekov followed a few steps behind her. When the doors of the Security Area finally closed behind him, however, he was emboldened enough to close that distance. "Excuse me, ma'am, but... I know this must sound foolish, but I am not sure I understand what my position is. I work for you and you pay the station?"
The woman stopped and smiled at him. It was a very professional smile. "You owe the station... How long have you actually been here? An hour?"
"Yes," he admitted, surprised. Maybe after two or so hours one stopped looking so horrified by all this.
"To get you out of there, I paid off your life support debt plus a bonus for the guards. As long as I pay your daily ticket, I keep you. If I don't, you go back in the cage until someone is willing to clear whatever debts you run up in the meantime. When it gets to thirty days, they lose patience and..."
"Yes." Chekov swallowed. "I know about that."
"Uh-huh. I thought you seemed very willing to be hired."
He shrugged unhappily. "Shifting cargo doesn't sound bad. Is this a long-term position?"
She smiled again. Her smiles were more condescending each time. "There are worse jobs. At least I think so. And no, it isn't. It's just twenty four hours."
Taking what he sincerely hoped was his last look at the security area over his shoulder, the ensign followed his employer into the crowded public corridors of the station. He made a conscious effort not to watch the effect walking had on the reflections in her suit. She was of average height, bald apart from a short blond pigtail at the back of her head, with a honey-coloured complexion and brown eyes. She wore a single gold earring in one ear that brought pirates uncomfortably to the ensign's mind.
At length, they entered a turbo lift and travelled upwards in silence. The lift halted but the door remained closed. When she palmed it open, there was nothing outside.
She chuckled patronisingly at his sharp intake of breath.
"Silly," she said, stepping out and turning on the lights. The clear bubble they'd emerged into became effectively opaque. It was just a studio apartment, large and elegantly furnished. Beneath his feet, Chekov was relieved to find a perfectly ordinary carpet. The lift opened out of a solid wall, but opposite and curving up over their heads was uninterrupted clearsteel.
"Go wash your face."
He glanced away from the view and found she was pointing him towards the only other door in the apartment. He didn't like being told what to do like a small boy, but she was the boss. There was no point in losing this job before he even found out exactly what it was.
The bathroom's decor was so chic it took him a minute to figure out how to turn the water on in the sink and a few more to divine how one controlled the temperature. Only after he'd washed most of the dried blood off his face was he brave enough to look at his own reflection.
"How did you get in this condition anyway?" a voice asked, echoing his own thoughts.
He turned quickly. He hadn't expected his employer to invade the bathroom while he was still in there.
"Here." When she pressed a button, a drawer opened in the cabinet beside the sink. From it, she drew a small sponge, reached around him to hold it briefly in the stream of water, then handed it to him. "Use this on your lip."
"Thank you." The sponge had something on it that numbed the pain a little.
"That shirt goes in the processor," the woman ordered, rummaging through her drawer for something else.
"Excuse me?"
"Take off your shirt and put it in the processor," the woman repeated slowly, pointing at a chute in the wall next to him for emphasis. "It'll get the blood out in a few minutes."
"Oh." Finding no legitimate reason why he should not do so, Chekov self-consciously shouldered out of Brecht's shirt and deposited it as directed. When he turned back, the woman was sizing him up with what looked like a practised eye.
"Lots of bruises," she said, critically. "Most of them fresh."
Chekov shrugged. "I have been living a rather precarious life of late."
"You're a human, aren't you?" she asked, pulling what he guessed was a small medical instrument out of the drawer. "From where? Earth? One of the Mars Colonies?"
"Earth," he confirmed.
"Right." She made a few adjustments to the device's setting then held it to his cheek. "Hold still."
It seemed strange that a civilian who didn't seem to be a medical practitioner would have a device for repairing bruises that had settings for a range of alien races. Having such an instrument readily at hand seemed to indicate that this woman encountered wounded aliens on a regular basis.
"Thank you." Chekov reached up to intercept the device as she prepared to move to his jaw. "But I think I can..."
"I'll do your face," she insisted, pulling the sealer out of his reach. "You can have it after that."
Despite the fact that the ensign felt less than comfortable standing half-naked with a woman he barely knew about half an inch away, there didn't seem to be any arguing with this. From this close up, it was apparent that she was older than he'd been assuming -- maybe in her early forties. The mirror suit and the strange hairstyle could have been purposefully chosen to distract attention from her face.
"Better?" she asked, pulling away after a few minutes.
"Yes, thank you." The face in the mirror, despite a few lingering patches of discoloration, was one he now could recognise.
"You still look like you could use some brightening up." The woman opened another drawer. "What's your pleasure? Stardust? Em-tees? Illissium?"
"Excuse me?"
She held up a small hypo as explanation.
"Oh." Chekov politely turned his attention to treating a large bruise on his right side. "No. No, thank you."
"Suit yourself." The woman dialled a dosage and hissed the hypo into her arm through the mirror fabric. She sighed and closed her eyes for a minute. "Look, whether or not the accent's real, keep it. The clients like that sort of thing. But you've got to drop this wide-eyed act. No one your age is as innocent as you're trying to pretend to be."
"What do you mean?"
"Surely you've caught on to the setup by now. You know what you're here for."
"Actually, I was preparing to inquire..."
"Okay." She dropped the hypo back into its drawer. "The shifting cargo stuff was a smokescreen. I just don't like people knowing my business. Understand?"
"I suppose," Chekov replied slowly.
"The truth is that one of my regulars has gotten into a little trouble. I need someone to handle his bookings."
"Are you..." Chekov paused and cleared his throat. "Are we talking about... uhm... prostitution?"
The woman smiled. "What else did you think we could be talking about?"
Despite everything, he had to laugh. "Are you serious?"
"Do I look serious?"
"Yes." The ensign quickly sobered. "Yes. You look very serious. Ma'am, I am very sorry for this misunderstanding, but I am not... Well, it's simply not a possibility."
The woman crossed her arms. "You said you wanted to work."
"Yes, but not... That is to say, I am looking for something a little more... technical."
"Like what?"
"I am qualified to pilot. I can do some engineering -- routine maintenance and tasks of that sort, computer programming, communications..."
"Who do you know?" she interrupted.
"What?"
"Who have you got here to recommend you?" she clarified. "You can't get jobs like those without recommendations. In a port like this one, no one hires someone they don't know. Have you got contacts here?"
"No."
"Then the only kind of work you're going to get on this station is what I'm offering. Drifters like you are disposable -- not worth the air it takes to keep you alive."
"You can't be serious," he argued. "I am not unskilled labour. Certainly not on a spaceport."
"Without contacts..." The woman shrugged. "... you're nothing but meat."
There was a long silence between them as she watched him try to get his mind around this idea.
"Well," he said at length, putting the sealer down on the cabinet between them. "I suppose I go back to the detention area now."
"Is that what you want?" she asked. "It isn't what I want."
"It isn't a matter of..." A bad thought suddenly hit him. "They will return the money you expended to bring me here, won't they?"
The woman shook her head.
"So, that means... I owe you rather a large amount."
The woman nodded.
"Oh." The walls of the little room seemed to be closing in on him. "If I could only get out a message..."
"To your ship?"
"Well, not to the one I came on. I need to use a comm link. I have to get a message through to the nearest Federation Starbase..."
"That would be expensive." A buzzer sounded and the woman took his shirt from the processor chute.
"How expensive?"
"Well, let me see." She shook the shirt out. "A compressed message, a few k-bytes... Working casual labour, assuming you'd be picked up a few times a week -- which doesn't usually happen -- it could take as little as two hundred or so days."
Chekov's face fell. "Oh."
"Assuming you had that long, which you don't," she added unnecessarily. "Working for me -- if you worked hard and behaved yourself -- you could have enough after one or two nights."
"Oh," Chekov repeated as she handed the shirt to him.
"Look, you're trying to pass up a good opportunity here," the woman said. "I treat my people right, unlike some in the business. You'll walk out that door in much the same condition you came in... Well, you're already in better condition. I'll pay you on top of paying your ticket... and there's a lot of employers out there that don't do that. I have a small clientele -- no troublemakers in the group. It's not like I'll be sending you out with strangers."
Chekov held his shirt stupidly to his chest, amazed and terrified that he was actually beginning to consider this.
The woman sighed. "Do you drink?"
"What?... Uh, yes."
"Good." She turned to leave and indicated with a jerk of her head that he should follow. "You look like you could use a drink."
He followed her numbly into the main room.
"Now, don't get nervous," she said, pausing in front of the room's small food processor. "I'm not going to try to drug you... Although if I do hook you up with a client, I will insist you take something... Something so you don't care so much about what they do -- and so you don't give them any trouble. That's just my policy, understand?"
Chekov found himself nodding as if he thought this was a very reasonable procedure.
The woman put her hand on her hip. "Are you going to put that shirt on, or are you planning to use it as a napkin?"
The ensign belatedly drew the silky garment on as the woman turned and ordered herself a pale green drink that smelt like tea.
"You want anything in particular?" she asked.
"Anything."
She laughed as she turned back to the processor. "Earthmen drink -- mm, difficult one. Most planets seem to have one particular beverage associated with them, but not Earth. Romulan Ale, Saurian Brandy, Klingon... How about Scotch? Islay. The man who gave it to me says it's a ladies malt, but you don't strike me as any kind of connoisseur."
Spurning the processor's synthetic offerings, she discarded her tea and bent down to retrieve a green bottle from a low shelf, throwing up weird reflections of the room's contents as she did so. Chekov took the chance to glance around, looking for something to use as a weapon.
He was ashamed that he was considering assault and robbery -- especially against someone who had not been at all unkind to him -- as a means of laying hands on some cash. However, since the alternative was prostitution...
"The clients I've got lined up for tonight aren't a bad bunch for a beginner," she said, searching for glasses without turning around. "First, there's a couple of Klingons, but they're okay. Never damage the goods. Later there's a couple of Orions. Drunks. They usually fall asleep. Money for vacuum."
There were one or two heavy ornaments that looked like they might have been designed to be used as blackjacks in case of emergency. If anything, they looked a little too lethal.
Unaware of his planning, the woman splashed an inch into each of two glasses. She handed one to Chekov and sat down next to him on the low, upholstered sculpture that he'd finally decided was intended as seating rather than decoration.
She held up her glass. "To Montgomery Scott. A grand man."
Chekov's drink fell from his fingers. "What?"
"Don't expect me to believe you know him."
"But I do," Chekov insisted. "He was one of my superior officers on the Enterprise... We were both abducted... You did see him, didn't you? He told you he'd been abducted?"
She eyed him suspiciously. "Keep talking."
"He has..." Chekov tried to put the airbrakes on his mouth. Despite her apparent good opinion of Mister Scott, he didn't know who this woman was, or who she might be connected with. "He is in great danger. It is for his sake as much as my own that I must get a message back to the Federation."
"I don't know you," she said flatly. "I have no way of knowing who you are. All I know is that you'd say just about anything right now to persuade me to give you a break you've done nothing to deserve."
"I am Ensign Pavel Andreievich Chekov of the U.S.S Enterprise. My service number is 656-5827D," Chekov said urgently. "Relay that to a Starbase and you will receive confirmation of my identity. Or if you do not trust me, simply relay the message that Mister Scott was here and is in great danger."
The woman looked half-persuaded. "You'd better tell me everything," she said, putting down her drink. "Start at the beginning. Don't leave anything out. And I warn you, if one bit of it doesn't tally with what I know, you'll be on the wrong side of an airlock before you know what happens to you."
"Well..." Chekov weighed the potential danger of disclosing everything he knew against the danger of disclosing nothing. "As I said, Mister Scott is... was one of my superior officers on the Enterprise... a Federation vessel..."
He was interrupted by the sound of a low chime.
"Not now." The woman sighed impatiently as she rose and crossed to a small comm unit. "Probably a client. Don't you move a muscle," she warned Chekov, putting a small receiver disk to her ear. "Yeah?"
Only a buzz of the other side of the conversation was audible to the ensign's straining ears.
"Okay... Yeah, I do, but..." The woman's eye fell on Chekov as she listened to her caller. "I don't know if that's a very good idea... Yeah... Yeah... Really..? I don't know... Well, okay, but no rough stuff, understand?"
Chekov watched as she switched off the link and pressed a few more buttons. He thought he could hear the hum of the turbo lift as the woman crossed the room.
"Client," she explained, picking up a towel and tossing it to him. "Wants to talk. Mop that up."
"Of course," the ensign agreed, mopping up the liquor he'd spilt. Mister Scott certainly wouldn't be pleased by the waste, he reflected. He wondered if Scott would be pleased by any of this. What was his relationship to this woman? Was it possible that an honest, upstanding person could exist on a place like Quondar? Or was this just more of Scott's seedy past coming to light?
He turned at the sound of the lift door opening. He'd been so preoccupied with thoughts of Mister Scott, he hadn't caught on to the fact that the woman had given someone -- some client -- permission to enter. As soon as he saw the visitor's dark features, he knew this guest was not here primarily to visit his hostess.
"Khwaja," he gasped. "I..."
The pirate, not waiting for greetings or explanations, dove at the ensign with a growl. Chekov rolled out of the way and scrambled to his feet, but the black man caught him by the ankle and pulled his leg out from under him. The larger man had him effectively pinned face-first on the carpet in a second. Sitting on the ensign's back holding his arms down with his knees, the first thing the pirate did was to slap a large piece of adhesive tape over the ensign's mouth. The unpleasantly familiar sensation of manacles being affixed to his wrists and ankles followed quickly afterwards.
"I said no rough stuff, Khwaja." When Chekov turned his head, he found the woman had a small blaster aimed at them.
"Sorry." Holding the ensign down with his foot, the pirate rose and carefully drew a computer cassette out of his pocket and held it out for her. "I don't know what wild story he's told you, but here's his ID."
She took it gingerly. "Sit down," she ordered, keeping her weapon trained on him.
"Sure." Khwaja picked Chekov up, using his manacled-together wrists and the wide belt he was wearing as convenient hooks. He sat down on one of the sculpture/chairs, draping the ensign over his lap like an old overcoat. When Chekov struggled in protest at this indignity, the pirate pulled his head up by the hair.
"No matter how bad you think things are now," he assured him, "they can get worse. Fast."
"Pavel Sukharov," the woman said, apparently reading from a small computer terminal somewhere on the other side of the room. "From Earth. Admitted to Star Fleet Academy but expelled after two and a half years for cheating. Made his way to the Orion colonies to try to get accepted into the Space Guild's apprentice program, but accumulated a large debt to Vhzon Dilsim of Orr. Tried to run out on that debt, but was caught by the Orion authorities. Vended to Bardon Goudchaux on a five year indenture..."
"Who sold him to me," Khwaja concluded. He patted Chekov on the head. "And now it's been a bad little kitty again, hasn't it? We'll have to give it a good scolding before we put it back in its box, won't we?"
The ensign struggled to no avail. The pirate could manage to hold him securely in place with the one hand that still gripped Brecht's overlarge belt.
"Then he does know Montgomery Scott?" the woman asked distrustfully.
Khwaja shrugged carelessly. "They've met."
"He claimed Scott was in danger."
"Not when I left him," the pirate replied easily. "Since we had to delay our departure until I could retrieve our little delinquent here, we're still in dock. You can call the ship and talk to him yourself if you want. In fact, I'd appreciate it if you'd call him and tell him the two of us will be there in a few minutes."
"Maybe not two," the woman said, her blaster still in her hand. "I've paid for this one. A full ten-days of air."
"In my pocket's a half kee of Illissium," the pirate offered. "I'm sure that will cover any expenses incurred."
"It won't accommodate my clients for tonight."
"Clients?" Khwaja laughed. "Cheznee, surely by now you've realised that Mister Manners here is of no use to you. The minute your back's turned, he'll club you or one of your clients and jump ticket."
"Nobody jumps ticket on me," the woman claimed grimly. "And if he's of no use to me, what use can he be to you?"
"Well, you see, I have more leisure to deal with him than you." The pirate casually let one hand rest on his captive in a manner that provoked a new outbreak of frantic struggling from the ensign. "On the ship, there's no place for him to run and all the time in the world for me to teach him to appreciate the pleasures of his new position."
The woman considered for a long moment. "Make it a full kee... And you'll still owe me."
"I'd end up owing you more if I left him," Khwaja assured her as he rose, setting the ensign precariously on his own fettered feet. Steadying his prisoner with one hand twisted into the loose fabric around his shoulder, the pirate reached into his jacket and threw the woman a clear container of sparkling blue powder.
Chekov turned towards her as best he could, silently pleading for intervention, but the woman was too engrossed in testing the purity of her payoff to notice.
"Come on, kitty," Khwaja said, hoisting the ensign over his shoulder. "Time to go home."