"Guess who I found," Khwaja announced cheerfully as he dumped Chekov into the chair next to the communications console on the bridge of Goudchaux's Nell.

The pirates were waiting for him, even -- Chekov was less than pleased to note -- Goudchaux, who smiled like he knew what the answer would be when he asked, "Where did you find him?"

"In a whorehouse," Khwaja answered, as Scott looked up from the engineering panel. The expression on the engineer's face could be interpreted as relief. But was it relief that he was safe, or that he was back under the pirates' control? "Cashing in on his talent."

"I should be shocked." Across the bridge, Brecht shook his head as he crossed his arms. "I know I should be."

From the looks of things, Brecht's fellow conspirators hadn't been amused by his party trick of abducting their communal prisoner. The freebooter was now sporting a black eye. He was seated at a non-functional station with Chen standing over him in what clearly read as a supervisory position.

"He was with your friend Cheznee, Scott," Khwaja continued.

The engineer's face darkened. He put down the tool he'd been using and came over to Chekov. "You bloody idiot," he said, jerking the ensign up to standing by his shirt front. "What did you tell her? Anything about the Orlan Du? About the medallion?"

Chekov shook his head, feeling guilty, despite everything, at being the object of the engineer's displeasure.

"But you did ask her to help you get in touch with Starfleet, now didn't you?"

Chekov considered denying it, then decided he wouldn't be believed if he did. He nodded.

"You worthless idiot!" With his hands and ankles still bound, the ensign had no way of controlling his fall when Scott pushed him backwards. He managed to land back in the chair only with luck and Khwaja's assistance. "What possessed you to get her involved with this?"

"I think I managed to undermine any credibility he had with her," Khwaja said. "But somehow he found out she had a connection with you. You'd better call and put to rest any doubts he's raised in her mind."

"Aye, I'll do that." Scott folded his arms. "I doubt she'll be wasting her credits on subspace at any rate. And if she did have a notion that you knew anything about the Orlan Du she wouldn't have the set up to try and follow us... and she'd know enough not to bring anyone else in."

"I'm not getting an answer from her place," Khwaja reported, turning from the communications console.

Moray Morgain laughed shortly. "Try again in fifteen minutes."

"How did you get Esme to let you go?" Scott demanded of the ensign.

Chekov, who didn't really have much choice in the matter, remained silent.

The engineer mercilessly stripped the adhesive gag off him in a single pull.

"Oooo!" Morgain winced for him. "Don't rip those lips off, Scott. I might need them later."

Scott ignored her, keeping his glare on the ensign. "Well?"

Star Fleet training made it hard not to answer. "I did nothing to influence her to release me."

Goudchaux smirked. "Always one to protect a lady, isn't he? Well, Scott, has your young friend here finally proved to you that he's outlived his usefulness to us?"

The look Scott was giving him made Chekov fairly certain that the engineer's immediate answer to this question would be 'yes'.

"What does he know, Brecht?" Scott turned to the freebooter. "Why were you keeping him alive?"

Brecht crossed his arms. "I was keeping him alive because, like the rest of you, I don't know what he knows."

"You interrogated him, didn't you?"

"Yes," Brecht admitted. "But not being the expert that my friend Mister Chen is, I didn't find out much more than his identification number and his collar size."

"I've been telling you all along that that's about all he knows," Khwaja interjected. "He's just playing us off against each other. How long will it be before he gets his hands on a weapon, or the comm station, or the self-destruct sequence?"

Six pairs of very unfriendly eyes were turned on the ensign.

Chekov swallowed and took in a deep breath. "I know exactly where the treasure is. Mister Brecht gave me access to information I needed. I now know the location and the code to obtain it."

The pirates' silence held for a long moment until it was finally broken by Brecht's laugh.

"You do have to admit that the lad has a grasp of psychology," he chuckled.

"Then it's a lie?" Khwaja demanded.

"No," Brecht answered, shaking his head in admiration. "That's just it. He could be telling the absolute truth. I did give him a reference book on the Orlan Du that he'd never seen before. He had sufficient time to go through it before he escaped."

"Or he could be lying." Goudchaux leaned forward so that his bony nose was only a few inches from Chekov's ear. "To try to save his miserable skin."

"He's wasting our time," Khwaja interrupted. "You might as well let me have him."

Chekov pushed his shoulders back, trying to minimise his dishevelled, helpless appearance. "This voyage has cost you all a great deal so far. Now both Brecht and Goudchaux have spent more here on repairs and dock dues. Securing my return also cost a surprisingly large amount. I am unclear if Mister Brecht has received payment for the fifth fragment of the medallion, since Mister Scott is no longer available to serve that function. At any rate, Brecht still must find some way to pay his sponsors. It seems to me it is financially imperative to you all that you take advantage of a clear opportunity to find the treasure."

Goudchaux's crew exchanged glances. One could almost taste their re-ignited greed

"Very well argued, Mister Chekov." Goudchaux patted the ensign on his shoulder, but his watery eyes were still full of contempt. "Perhaps if we'd had you here earlier to put it all so clearly for us, we might have saved ourselves some bitter words. I still favour plan B, but before we cut our losses on the Orlan Du, I think we might as well discover exactly what you do know. Mister Chen, if you aren't too occupied at the moment?"

"There's no need for that," Chekov protested as the huge Asian stepped forward to take custody of him. "I am quite willing to co-operate. If someone would release me..."

"Right." Scott pressed a button on the console and the ensign's bonds demagnetised. "We call this bluff here and now for once and for all. If you know the coordinates of the treasure, Chekov, put us on that heading."

At Scott's nod, Chen's massive hands settled heavily on either of the ensign's shoulders and steered him towards the navigation console. Chekov was glad he was being spared the need to tell his captors what he intended to do. It was too embarrassingly silly. Once the coordinates were translated into the system used by Goudchaux's computer, the simple-minded approach he was using wouldn't be obvious. Chekov had no faith it would work -- there was no reason it should -- but it would keep him alive for a few hours longer.

The ensign sat down and powered up the board. He recalled the first two numbers from the medallion and made the necessary conversions. It was difficult to maintain proper concentration with six impatient pirates breathing down one's neck. After a moment, a small blue cross pinpointed the desired location on the chart in front of him. In deference to the others' interest, Chekov transferred the result to the main screen. "There."

"Does that make sense to you, Brecht?" Scott asked.

The freebooter nodded cautiously. "That's near enough to the old Orion power base. It's not a highly populated area, or on a major trading route... at least not now. I couldn't say what it might have been then."

Khwaja peered curiously over the ensign's shoulder. "How did you work that out?"

"I could explain the mathematics," Chekov responded. "But I doubt your grasp of the principles would enable you to understand."

The pirate grabbed a handful of the ensign's hair and used it to pull his head backwards. "Be careful, kitten," Khwaja warned. "I might think of a better use for your tongue -- before I nail it to the wall of my cabin."

"How long will it take us to get to those coordinates?" Goudchaux asked as Moray Morgain began to lay in the course at her controls.

"At an inconspicuous warp four: thirty hours."

"I can do that in the Black Beauty," Brecht agreed, then he noticed that Scott and Goudchaux were frowning at him. "We'll need her too..."

"Why?" Scott wanted to know.

"I told Mister Brecht we needed two ships to locate the treasure," Chekov volunteered. "However, we do not. I only said that in order to..."

"...To make sure I didn't let Goudchaux get away with your friend Mister Scott." Brecht rolled his eyes, realising he'd been taken in. "How touching."

"And now..." On this cue from Goudchaux, Chen brushed Khwaja aside and guided Chekov back up to standing. "What to do with our bright young man until we reach the location he has so kindly provided us with..."

Scott stepped forward with his arms folded. "If I know Chekov, he's not giving us the complete story... if he's telling the truth at all. Right, lad?"

The ensign frowned and said nothing. Although it was quite reasonable for any of the pirates to make such assumptions about him, Chekov didn't know of anything he'd ever done to cause the engineer to form so low an opinion of his character, particularly when Brecht had just this minute told them all how careful the ensign had been to safeguard the engineer's interests.

"My thoughts exactly." Goudchaux beckoned. "Mister Chen..."

Scott stopped the interrogator with one hand. "Although I trust Mister Chen's talent to get almost anything out of the lad, somehow I don't trust you to relay that information exactly, Bardon."

Goudchaux eyed his former shipmate narrowly. "Then what do you propose?"

"To avoid the temptation for any of us to try to get the next step out of him before the others, I think we need to arrange for Chekov to be kept in the custody of at least two of us at all times. Can we agree on that?"

"No." Khwaja and Morgain spoke simultaneously.

Brecht shook his head. "Looks like life is going to get even more interesting for you, Commodore. Now Scott, as for which ship we take..."

"I think our lack of faith in one another dictates we all go in this ship -- with Captain Goudchaux's permission. I doubt any one of us is volunteering to arrive at the location an hour after the rest. As my friend Bardon is the owner of the Nell, he's nominally in command. But I think we should regard this venture as a partnership. Twenty five percent each of any treasure we find for Goudchaux and Brecht, in recognition of their capital investment to date. The remaining fifty percent between the four of us. If Chekov proves to be of any use to us, I'll split my share of the treasure with him." Scott looked around for agreement.

Six and a quarter percent of a non-existent treasure, Chekov figured. Very impressive.

"Minus what I paid to get him off Quondar," Khwaja interjected.

"Agreed."

"And damages to my..."

"Don't push your luck, Brecht," Scott warned before the freebooter could completely voice his request.

Esme, Chekov noted, appeared to have been completely dropped from the partnership. He hoped she wasn't dead, but not with much conviction.

"All right, Moray," Goudchaux turned to his pilot. "Take us to Mister Chekov's coordinates at Warp four. As you say, there's no need to draw attention to ourselves by being in too much of a hurry."

"Right." Scott turned back to the engineering console.

"Although I do appreciate the need to keep your Mister Chekov in good condition and in safe custody, I do have a problem with him, Scott," Goudchaux continued. "I'm content to wait for my chance to make it clear to Esme that my prisoners are not at her disposal". Apparently the pirate had forgotten that when the medic released Chekov, both the ensign and Goudchaux himself had been Brecht's prisoners. "After all, we do need her, at least temporarily. However, I am very concerned that your young friend is slow to learn to do as he's told and stay where he's put."

Standing at the navigation station, with Moray calmly clearing for departure at the adjacent board, Chekov had been feeling, foolishly perhaps, that he was safe for the moment. Scott's suggestion of a double guard seemed to be made with his best interests at heart. Now, it seemed his escape wasn't to be overlooked.

"Aye." Scott turned to him with hands on his hips. "He does seem to have forgotten how to do as he's bid. Bring Mister Chekov along with me, Chen. I've got an engine room below that's too filthy to be used as a spittoon right now. Might as well put him to work while he waits, right, Bardon?"

Goudchaux didn't look like this was exactly what he had in mind, but there was no stopping Scott as he wrapped a hand around the ensign's arm and ushered him to the 'lift. "I can remind him how to take orders." The engineer smiled grimly. "Can't I, lad?"

***

"Are you finished with that pipework yet?"

Chekov wiped his eyes against the small patch of remaining clean cloth on the shoulder of his shirt. "No, Mister Scott."

"Then stop dawdling, man, Put your back into it!"

The ensign sprayed another coat of solvent on the greasy black metal in front of him, and wished for the energy to be as angry as this situation called for him to be. He'd been at this for over two hours now without a break. If he wasn't "putting his back into it", then that region of his body was surely doing a lot of complaining about nothing. He was covered with grease and sweat. The variety of vicious cleansing agents Scott deemed necessary to bring the Nell's engine room up to his professional standards was torturing Chekov's nose and eyes. Even through the protective gloves he wore, the ensign's hands felt raw from the scrubbing.

The engineer hadn't spoken to him other than to specify what was to be cleaned and how, or to speculate on what sort of personal defects were making the ensign work so slowly. Scott was now engaged in stripping a piece of machinery down to its components, seemingly as happy as if he were in his own engine room on the Enterprise.

Chen, silent as ever, was seated at a computer station near by. The ensign couldn't tell, but it looked like Goudchaux's strong man might be on the verge of falling asleep.

Chekov frowned as he folded a rag solid with heavy black residue inside out, revealing a relatively unpolluted patch of material, and continued polishing. He could certainly use a nice nap himself. On top of everything else, the thrum and whistle of the engines was giving him a pounding headache. Chekov was so tired it was getting hard to think and above all else, he really needed to be able to think right now. The ensign had no idea what he was going to do next -- other than being exposed as a fraud and killed within the next thirty hours, of course.

A light touch on his shoulder made him jump out of his skin. "Are you all right, Chekov?"

The ensign stared at the engineer's concerned features in disbelief. Glancing past Scott's shoulder, Chekov could see that Chen was now soundly asleep, his head dropped forward against his chest.

"I've been better," he answered cautiously.

"How did you manage to get coordinates out of those numbers?" Scott asked softly. "You're guessing, aren't you?"

Chekov bit his lip. As much as he wanted to trust Scott, he found himself unable to disclose the whole truth. Suspicion had overgrown his mind like a protective membrane.

"I have a theory that fits the facts at present," he said. "I am... not completely confident that it is the correct solution." The ensign decided not to mention that his theory was at odds with all common sense. "I am, however, quite sure of what will happen to me when I run out of ideas. There is a compartment adjacent to this one filled with..."

"What do we do when we get to the coordinates? What do you expect to find there?"

Chekov frowned. He supposed that Chen might well wake up at any moment, or someone else might walk in, making idle conversation something of a luxury. But he couldn't help feeling that the engineer was more interested in the treasure of the Orlan Du than in the well-being and happiness of his shipmate. "What we're looking for," he answered evasively. "Perhaps."

Scott snorted. "Or perhaps we'll find the bloody Loch Ness Monster, eh?"

"If we do, then maybe Mister Brecht could sell that to the Klingons," Chekov replied sarcastically, "instead of you."

Rather than getting angry, Scott grinned and patted him on the back. "Good lad. Don't let them take your sense of humour. Are you sure you're all right, Chekov? Do you need any medical attention? When did you eat last? And what in God's name were you doing with Jessie Alleyn?"

Chekov blinked, still convinced that the engineer's concern was only a mirage that would melt away upon close examination.

"I am not injured," he reported slowly, taking Scott's questions in order. "Not badly injured, at least. I ate several hours ago in Brecht's ship. And... Jessie?" The ensign realised he'd been perpetuating his mishearing of Khwaja's mispronunciation of the madam's name. "It was a misunderstanding ... I was forced to seek employment and... It was a misunderstanding."

To Chekov's relief, Scott only smiled ruefully at that idea. The engineer then picked up the rag the ensign had dropped. As quickly and violently as a summer storm, Scott's face clouded over. "And don't think you can leave my engine room in such a bloody mess, Mister!" he yelled, balling the rag up and throwing it in Chekov's face with all his might. Before the ensign could recover, the engineer kicked him. "A filthy slacker like you isn't fit to crew a garbage scow, let alone a starship... Ah, Bardon, old friend, no problems I hope?"

Chen was scowling at the newcomer, looking as if he'd been awake all along. Goudchaux ran a finicky finger over the top of a set of regulators and examined the tip critically. "We were just wondering when your assistant would be ready to come prepare dinner for us, Scott."

"How am I supposed to run an engine room if you steal my men to staff the galley?" the engineer exploded.

Goudchaux clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "You have to learn to share, Scotty. I thought we agreed that Chekov is not going to be anyone's exclusive property for the time being -- and I have so missed his excellent coffee..."

Scott snorted. "You can't live on coffee, man. Nor on Russian cooking. Tell you what, I'll come and knock something together myself if you'll give me ten minutes to finish up here. Relying on a Russian to cook... hmmph! We are beyond the borders of civilised society!"

***

"Sorry, angel." Moray Morgain smiled. "I didn't make you spill anything, did I?"

Chekov gripped the handle of the coffee pot as tightly as he would have liked to have gripped Morgain's throat as he moved to refill Goudchaux's cup. It seemed to suit Goudchaux to allow Scott to keep Chekov with him when the engineer swapped his tool kit for the eccentric assortment of implements in the little galley. Moray Morgain made up the other half of the obligatory double guard. She was leaning against the doorway between the galley and the messroom, in such a way that Chekov was obliged to squeeze past her as he fetched and carried.

"Miss Morgain," he said coldly. "Compared to you, the lady who wished to employ me on Quondar was a person of ultimate grace and refinement."

"He's saying you have less class than the madame of a two-bit whorehouse, Moray," Khwaja translated, holding his cup out for a refill.

"I know." She shrugged. "It's just that coming from someone who was mistaken for a two-bit whore, I don't know how seriously to take that."

Chekov ignored the pirates' laughter. He tried to ignore Morgain, but she put out an arm that blocked his way.

"You'd better be a little nicer to me," she warned.

"I have no motivation to be."

"Oh, really?" She leaned close and whispered in his ear. "Don't you want to escape?"

Chekov shouldered his way past her. "Like you're offering to help me."

"Don't worry, Moray," Scott said. He'd persuaded the synthesizer to give him some terran vegetables, in their natural state, which he was now peeling and dicing. "He'll do as you ask. Our Mister Chekov has quite a weakness for the ladies, don't you, Ensign?"

"For ladies, perhaps." Chekov started the coffee maker on a new cycle. "However, Miss Morgain doesn't qualify under those terms."

"Oooo." Morgain clutched a hand to her chest as if hit by an imaginary missile. "I'm wounded. And he used to be so polite before he went pro."

"No need to be rude, lad," Scott admonished, handing him a knife and a bowl of vegetables.

"Especially as you don't know where you'll be sleeping tonight," Morgain reminded him sweetly. "If I were in your position, angel, I think I'd be doing unto others as I would have them do unto me."

Scott chuckled. "Somehow, I didn't picture you as one to quote Bible verses, Moray."

"Oh, I was raised on the stuff." Moray ambled over to the counter next to the ensign and reached around him to steal a piece of diced vegetable. "The Convent of Our Lady, New Heligoland. For all the good it did me. I did learn some things at school, though." She let her hand stray to Chekov's thigh. "But he'll find out about that later... after he finds out about the compromise Khwaja and I have worked out for tonight..."

Chekov pushed her away with his elbow, then turned on her, the paring knife still in his hand.

"None of that." Scott grabbed the knife from the ensign, then pulled him roughly to a spot further away from Moray with his back to the wall and shoved a bowl and a whisk into his hands. "Here, beat this till I tell you to leave off. And see if you can keep your mind on what you're doing."

"Yes, sir." Chekov was shaking. He didn't know if it was from anger or from the shock of how close he'd come to stabbing Moray Morgain.

"Darlin'..." Scott's voice was mild when he turned to Morgain. "There's a wee bottle of Scotch under that cabinet. Would you mind pouring me a glass?"

"Sure." Her voice didn't have it's usual steady tone. "I think I'll have some myself."

"I want it good and stiff," Scott instructed his sous-chef, referring to the bowl of cream rather than the whisky.

"If you told me what you needed it for..."

"Nothing you'd know how to prepare. Now if I can only get this infernal contraption to give me some pinhead oatmeal..." the engineer continued, turning to the synthesizer.

Since both he and Scott had presumably grown up with same Northern European culinary traditions, Chekov thought the engineer might have credited him with at least a little kitchen sense. He added the small slight to his growing list of grievances against his captors. Scott was at the moment included with the rest under that heading. 'He is as bad as the others... and now I am becoming no better than them,' Chekov thought, trying not to look at Moray Morgain as she took a long, slow sip of her scotch, 'vindictive, deceitful... murderous.'

He wondered what would have happened to him if Khwaja hadn't found him and taken him away from Jessie Alleyn. Would he have been able to convince her to contact Star Fleet? Or would he have been forced to go through with his tentative plan to assault and rob her? Would he have been able to? Or would he now be in a darkened room with...

"Not like that!" Scott snatched the bowl out of his hands. "Do you want to turn it into butter, you dunderhead?"

As he watched Scott tip the toasted oatmeal into the cream he'd been beating, Chekov decided he didn't know what he was doing after all.

***

"What's the traditional punishment for desertion?" Goudchaux asked his fellow diners as if this were a perfectly normal and pleasant after dinner conversation.

Chekov forced himself to continue clearing away dishes as if he hadn't heard. Esme had appeared for the evening meal. She looked even more pale than usual, but otherwise unharmed. Scott had opted to dine with the pirates, but had left the ensign ample portions of everything to gulp down during breaks in his serving duties -- even a generous measure of the scotch that had gone in with the cream and oatmeal. The engineer was now lingering over coffee with Goudchaux and Morgain.

"I think they shoot you for that, don't they?" Morgain speculated with cool cruelty.

"In any fleet anyone here's ever served in, the penalty for desertion is a dishonourable discharge," Scott corrected firmly.

You wouldn't find a discharge from this company very dishonourable." Moray put a hand over the glass the ensign was about to remove. "Would you, angel?"

Chekov didn't do anything that would acknowledge her existence as he moved on to collect the next item on the table.

"Well, he'd better hope we're in dock when I decide to discharge him," Goudchaux said as the ensign passed behind him.

"No need to threaten the lad, Bardon," Scott reproved mildly. "He knows what'll happen to him if he doesn't behave himself."

"You've a point there. No need to be unpleasant when he's minding his manners so nicely." Chekov could feel the pirate's eyes on him as he put the dishes in the reclamation unit. "Back to being the bright and cheerful midshipman, aren't we, Chekov? Well, I suppose it's easier to grovel to someone who has the rank to expect it."

Chekov stiffened.

"I'll have more coffee, lad," Scott ordered as the ensign turned to reply.

Chekov forced himself to swallow his anger. Rising to Goudchaux's bait wasn't going to solve anything. "Yes, Mister Scott."

"I should have put you in charge of him from the first, Scott," the pirate said, draining his cup. "He's determined not to do a damned thing for me. It seems like he doesn't have any regard for anyone outside Star Fleet."

"He can be a mite stubborn at times," Scott admitted as the ensign filled his mug. "But he's a bright young fellow."

"Which is very lucky. Being stubborn has nearly gotten him killed as many times as being bright has gotten him out of it." The pirate smiled as he held out his cup. "Coffee, Chekov."

The ensign silently moved to fill it.

Goudchaux stopped him. "Yes, sir, Captain Goudchaux," he prompted.

Chekov only narrowed his eyes as he tried to pull his arm free.

"Ensign," Scott warned sharply.

Chekov took a deep breath and forced his gaze down to the tabletop. "Yes, sir."

"You see how he acts around me," Goudchaux said with an air of wounded innocence. "Rebellious, uncooperative. He gets above himself. Forgets who's in charge. He wouldn't even believe me when I tried to tell him about our days on the Lydia Lee."

"Ah." Scott smiled. "There was a fine ship."

"A pirate ship," Chekov muttered to himself, turning back towards the kitchen.

"What was that?"

Chekov turned. Scott was acting -- sometimes -- like he was secretly on the ensign's side. However, there was still a lot the engineer had to explain. "I was led to understand that the Lydia Lee was a pirate ship... sir."

Scott glared at him. "You are acting a bit too proud, Chekov. Especially for someone who's always had everything in life handed to him on a plate. Sit down."

"Sir?"

"I said sit." Scott pointed to the nearest chair -- which unfortunately happened to be beside Moray Morgain. "I'll tell you the story of the Lydia Lee."

The ensign put the coffee pot down on the table and moved to comply -- since this was a story he was actually interested in hearing. Before he could do so, Morgain yanked the chair out of his grasp.

"Ship's rules," she apologised to Scott, pulling the ensign down to the floor next to her. "We don't let the help sit at the table."

"Mister Scott," Chekov protested, attempting to rise.

"Don't give me another reason to be mad at you, angel," Moray warned, pushing him back down.

"Sit," Scott seconded unsympathetically. "Now, as I was about to say..."

The story of how a talented young engineer from respectable Aberdeen had arrived on a pirate vessel turned out to be rather similar to Chekov's own introduction to piracy. The young Scott had drunk too much in a spacedock bar while earning some vacation cash and been shanghaied by the Captain of the Lydia Lee, who was impressed by the young labourer's abilities. "I was only fourteen at the time," Scott offered by way of excuse. "And Cap'n Brewer was glad enough to have me. The 'Lee was in a sad way when I came aboard. I set her to rights and before I knew it, I was being treated as one of her officers."

Goudchaux's face had gone slightly sour. Chekov could clearly envisage the humiliation of the 'Lee's existing engineer at being upstaged by the juvenile Montgomery Scott. The ensign wondered resentfully if some of what was happening to him now hadn't been originally intended for the victim of that earlier press-gang.

As Scott's tale continued -- presumably to eventually explain how the engineer had escaped to return to respectability and Starfleet -- Moray Morgain's fingers crept down the collar of Chekov's shirt and began to move in slow, massaging circles. The ensign hated to take any comfort from her, but his aching back and neck muscles temporarily overruled his objections.

'I'd probably only be yelled at if I tried to make her stop,' he silently equivocated to his conscience.

"...And after we lost the Andorians in the asteroid belt around Shaaron, we had to lay up for repairs. I told Matt Brewer we wouldn't have the warp engines for at least three days..."

'Twelve hours,' Chekov mentally adjusted, having come to know Mister Scott's estimates for what they were during his time on the Enterprise. He no longer panicked when the engineer told the Captain something 'just couldn't be done'.

"...but we spotted the sweetest little yacht you can imagine. It would have broken your heart to let her go past without just passing the time of day with her. So I jury-rigged the mix chamber and we set off in pursuit. She was fast -- faster than we expected -- but I spoke softly to those engines and we were gaining on her little by little. And then Brewer realised his mistake. He'd told Esme to jam their communications, of course, and the Doctor is a fine communications officer, as good as any you've seen, Chekov, so we weren't worrying that they'd call for help. What he hadn't allowed for was that help might be close at hand already. There she was, a Starfleet cruiser. The admiral's yacht as good as in her docking bay, and all guns brought to bear on poor Lydia Lee."

"The bullies," Moray commented sarcastically in Chekov's ear. "And so you turned tail and ran, Scott?"

"By God, we did not. We stood our ground and fought like heroes. Is that not so, Bardon?"

Goudchaux shrugged. "I suspect Matt Brewer would've run if he hadn't known full well they'd have caught us. But we put on a good show before they dragged us in on tractor beams..."

"Screamin' and kickin' with every last drop of power we had that we hadn't used up disablin' their starboard nacelle with some sharp shootin' that would have put Mister Sulu to shame, Ensign. So there we were, lined up in the shuttle bay of the cruiser Cap'n Brewer proud to the last, Danny Morgain, his exec, the Doctor, Sam Bligh, Huw Griffiths..." Scott rolled off the names like a triumphant litany. "...Bardon Goudchaux and myself -- the crew of the Lydia Lee. And the Captain of the cruiser -- not that he deserved the ship or the title -- loosed the 'Lee from the docking ring, pushed her away and blew her out of the sky."

The representatives of the 'Lee present in the mess room bowed their heads in respectful silence. Chekov resisted the urge to utter condolences. It was only what he'd have done if he'd been master of that cruiser. He'd have had all the pirates shot on the spot... or put into rehab for the rest of their lives... at least the adults... And he hoped Scott had spent several years getting straightened out in remedial education. The engineer's digs at Chekov's idolised colleagues from the Enterprise weren't doing anything to win his sympathy.

"So what happened then, Mister Scott?" Moray asked, in a surprisingly genuine tone of voice.

"I thought you'd know that part of the story as well as anyone, lass," Scott said with gentle reluctance.

"No one's ever told me," she said. Then her customary callousness returned. "Not that I ever asked many. All I know is that my mother went off with Matt Brewer and never came back."

"Danny and Matt had brought phasers off the 'Lee with them. They tried to shoot their way out of the brig and were killed for their pains. The rest found themselves in penal colonies, or whatever the judge considered appropriate. Bardon here was placed in a supervised retraining facility. As I heard it, he registered the first morning and had vanished before the first lesson started... Right?"

Goudchaux smiled crookedly. "I'm flattered you took the time to find out, Scott."

"And you, Mister Scott?" Chekov pressed.

"I'll tell you that another time." Scott stretched as he got to his feet. "I think I'm due for a watch on the bridge."

Chekov watched as his one, uncertain guarantee of safety walked out on him. He turned slowly to Morgain. "I am sorry about your mother."

"What an angel you are," Morgain said, caressing his cheek. "Even after all I've done to you, you really feel sorry for me, don't you? Well, it's no use wasting your pity on that old bitch. She sold me to a rich and desperate colonist couple who couldn't make use of the usual cheap way of having kids. They got sick of me after a few years and put me in an orphanage. The only thing that really hurts is knowing my mother was killed painlessly by an unimaginative Star Fleet security guard, rather than suffering one of the really gruesome fates I dreamed up for her as a kid."

Despite himself, Chekov did pity her. He could barely imagine being brought so low as to wish a horrible death on one's own mother.

"Never mind," she said, rising and pulling him with her. "I think you can console me."

Her progress was impeded by Chekov's resistance and blocked by Goudchaux, who smiled and shook his head. "Remember, Moray, we've agreed to double guard. Either you do him here in front of me, or you don't do him at all."

She took a moment to look back and forth between Chekov's furious face and Goudchaux's smile.

"A little beyond even your limits, Moray?" the pirate captain taunted.

"No." She gave the ensign one last speculative glance before turning to Goudchaux. "I just don't think I want to have my back turned on you for that long, Captain."

"I'm so hungry, I could eat a mule," Stuart Brecht announced cheerfully as he entered the messroom with Mister Chen on his heels. "Are you by any chance serving mule, Commodore?"

"If he feeds you, he's serving an ass," Moray said as she sauntered past him through the door.

"She's in a pleasant mood," Brecht observed. "I'm sure we can thank you for that, Admiral. Is that some of your wondrous coffee I smell?"

"It needs to be reheated," Chekov said shortly, picking up the pot and retreating to the galley.

When he came back with two plates full of leftovers on a tray, Goudchaux had left.

"So, chief," Brecht began jocularly as the ensign set his food down in front of him, "what did you think of Quondar?"

"I didn't see very much of it," Chekov said, moving to serve Chen.

"So Khwaja tells me. Just the security section and the quarters of a high-class madame. You should have just stayed in the dockyards. You know enough to earn your ticket that way. Someone would have liked you enough to ship you out before too long."

"Yes, I should have," Chekov replied bitterly as he filled a mug with coffee and handed it to the freebooter. "I'll try to remember that next time."

"Why did you run, Chief?" Brecht asked seriously. "I had a sweet set-up going for both of us -- especially if you'd figured out the coordinates."

"I ran, Mister Brecht, because the door was open and I had feet," Chekov replied coldly. "I gather that didn't reflect well on you."

"No." Brecht smiled pointedly at Chen. "I guess you could say I'm on a kind of probation -- meaning I'm alive at least until Goudchaux can figure out an inconspicuous time and place to kill me without Scott catching on to him first."

Chekov nodded as he moved to collect the dishes Moray and Goudchaux had left. He almost felt sorry for Brecht. After all, the freebooter hadn't been nearly as inhumanly cruel to him as the rest of the pirates. "Good luck."

"And to you -- although if you'd told me those coordinates when I asked, I would have let you loose on Quondar with a copy of the station layout, a pocket full of money and a boxed lunch," Brecht said ruefully. "Somehow, I still can't believe you got anything from that book. I brought it aboard, if you need to see it again..."

Chekov decided not to believe Brecht. The man was just saying that to make him feel stupid and punish him for escaping.

"The text confirmed what I already suspected," the ensign replied, speaking clearly for the benefit of Mister Chen and anyone else who might care to kibitz. "That was all."

Brecht laughed. "You must pick up a lot of money in poker games, Admiral."

"I don't know how to play."

"Then I'll have to teach you some time -- if I live that long."

"I do have one question, gentlemen... Must I be escorted everywhere?"

"You want to take him to the head, Chen? I'd do the honours myself, but everyone seems to have reservations about the two of us being alone together."

The big man grunted and pushed his food aside. He followed Chekov out into the corridor. There was a rest room, a relatively large one, adjacent to the lift.

Chen closed the door on both of them. "Ensign, do you realise that you are in serious danger of fouling up an operation in which Starfleet has invested millions of credits and several years of detailed preparatory work?"

Chekov wasn't sure if he was more surprised by the content of Chen's question or its unexpected length. "What? I don't understand. What do you care about Starfleet?"

Chen's face maintained its customary blankness. "That's none of your concern. How did you arrive at the coordinates?"

"I picked them at random," Chekov lied. "I did not want to be dead and I don't enjoy your... tours."

"The machine was operating at minimum power. I had no intention of hurting you."

The ensign adjusted his clothing. "If that is the case, I think you are in the wrong profession."

Chen ignored the comment. "What will you do when we reach the coordinates and you can't produce the treasure?"

"Apologise to everyone and ask them to be kind enough to kill me as painlessly as possible." The irony in his tone covered a very frightened realisation that it was about to come to that.

Chen nodded. "If you must die, I will make sure it happens quickly." He opened the door again. "You need to rest. I'll fix the lock on your quarters so Khwaja can't get in."

"Khwaja?" Chekov repeated. "But isn't he..?"

"Isn't he what?"

"A Starfleet Intelligence Agent?" the ensign said slowly, hearing exactly how ridiculous it sounded.

Chen made an odd noise. It was only when Chekov was lying on the hard floor of his cell, staring at the ceiling, that he realised his torturer had been laughing.

***

"Wake up, lad. I've brought you some breakfast."

Chekov pulled himself up and looked at Scott through bleary eyes. There was steam rising from something on a tray that the engineer was carrying.

"Look lively. You'll need to have worked out Rumpelstiltskin's name sometime in the next half hour."

So Scott knew that fairy tale too.

Chekov wasn't at all sure he wanted to talk to the engineer, but his anxiety got the better of him. "Half hour? How long have I been asleep?"

"The treasure's only been there three thousand years," Scott said disapprovingly. "Some people couldn't bear the thought of someone else getting there before them at the last minute. And they don't think the sight of this steam engine straining its guts to do warp six is going to make anyone ask what her business might be."

Scott pushed the tray into Chekov's hands. The ensign examined its contents, while silently reflecting that acceleration to warp 6 should have resulted in the engines transmitting his hidden subspace message. Help was now surely on the way, but might still arrive too late. But for now... A bowl of porridge. He hated porridge. It seemed that a man shouldn't have to eat something he hated for what might still be his last meal. He'd tried porridge only once before -- at Scott's insistence -- and he'd hated it enough to give an honest opinion of it. Either Scott had forgotten or he was going to use it to terrorise Chekov into talking.

"So what happens when we get there? Do you know yet?"

"I'll transmit a radio message," Chekov sighed. "And when nothing happens, Chen has offered to kill me quickly."

"I was hoping you had a wee bit more in mind than that," Scott replied reproachfully. "Your emergency beacon, the one you programmed into the warp drive -- I assume that was your work?"

"Yes."

"It's all still there. I increased the threshold a little, so we wouldn't set it off by accident."

Chekov looked at him. Then he looked back down at his dish. "I hate oatmeal."

Scott looked hurt. "It was the most comforting thing I could think to fix."

Chekov guiltily tried a spoonful. It was so heavily sugared that the only problem was its objectionable texture. He managed to force down a couple of bites. "Can't you tell me what's happening? Is this something that Starfleet has set up?"

Scott shook his head. "Not to my knowledge."

As Chekov swallowed the next mouthful, an odd, sick shiver went through him. He looked up at Scott, wondering if the engineer had actually stooped to serving him poisoned porridge.

Scott met his eyes. "We've just cloaked. Now, I wonder if that's just Bardon being paranoid, or if someone's actually beaten us to it... Are you sure you said nothing to Jessie about all this?"

The ensign put his spoon down carefully. "Nothing at all."

"Then we'd better get up to the bridge and find out what's going on."

.***

"D'you know what this is, Scott?"

Goudchaux gestured at the screen. In the middle of the star field, there was a familiar distortion pattern.

"A cloaked ship," Chekov said automatically.

Goudchaux gave him a narrow look. "I didn't ask you."

"The lad's right." Scott stepped forward. "Have they spotted us?"

"They've given no sign of it. We're cloaked now."

"Where are we? How near the coordinates?"

"We are three hundred kilometres from the co-ordinates. They are exactly on them." Moray looked up from her board and smiled at Chekov. "But that doesn't look like a three thousand year old Orion treasure chest, now does it? Who did you talk to on Quondar?"

The ensign shook his head, as puzzled as any of them. "No one. Not about the Orlan Du."

"We might have been able to spot them sooner, or tell more about them now if sensors were operational." Goudchaux smiled icily at Scott.

The engineer shrugged. "I wasn't expecting you to need them for another ten hours or so. They'd have been working much better by then. Wouldn't they, Khwaja? It's hardly our fault if you don't stick to your plans."

"Moray, manoeuvre around them at this distance, until they're between us and Quondar, just in case they're expecting us to come from that direction. Chen, be ready to fire the moment I decloak."

Moray took the ship slowly around in the broad circle Goudchaux had specified, taking no risks with thrusters that would give away their position, using tiny nudges of the impulse engines to keep on course. Chekov wondered if he could make a dive for the helm, knock Morgain aside and engage the engines at full warp before someone could stop him. However slim the possibility that this mystery vessel contained a friend , he didn't want it destroyed. But what if Scott had lied to him about the beacon..?

Chekov felt the engineer take his wrists and pull the manacles gently together behind his back. "I don't think we want you to make any sudden moves just now."

The ensign twisted to look at him over his shoulder, his eyes wide with horror. "But what if..."

"What if it's a friend of yours, lad? I don't see how it could be, do you? Much more likely, it's just another treasure seeker like ourselves."

"Ready to fire, Chen. Three, two, one..."

The distortion field shifted suddenly and Chen's shot passed harmlessly through the exact centre of its previous location.

"They're bloody mind readers," Khwaja exclaimed.

"Find them!" Goudchaux slammed his fist down to re-activate the cloaking device but he was too late.

The ship bucked under incoming fire. Alarms screamed. The shaking was repeated. Chen was serenely locating the attacker, but his weapons station suddenly erupted in red flashing lights as the phaser banks obviously absorbed a direct hit. The engineering station was similarly ablaze with demands for urgent attention.

The firing stopped.

There was smoke drifting in, as if the air filtration wasn't coping too well somewhere in the system.

"Damage reports?" Goudchaux said quietly, sounding almost as dignified as a real captain, for once.

"Shields at twenty per cent, phasers disabled, sensors down."

Chekov fidgeted. It was madness staying here without weapons or shields, madness driven by greed. To go would be to leave their attackers to find the treasure.

"But we have communications?"

"Only short range." It was Esme, speaking up from the back of the bridge.

"Then ask for their terms."

The faces that appeared on the viewscreen were familiar ones. Chekov heard Scott breathe in sharply.

"Hello, Goudchaux," the female of the pair said cheerfully. "I think you've been keeping secrets from me."

"And where did you get a ship with a cloak, Jessie Alleyn?"

"Oh, my friend here just happened to be passing by and offered me a lift. Now, I don't know what's going on over there..."

Scott had produced a disruptor from his belt. He turned slightly to release Chekov's manacles with one hand.

"Mister Scott!" Chekov warned, seeing Khwaja make a sudden movement.

Before the words were out of his mouth, Khwaja was stunned by a blast from a weapon in Brecht's hand. To Chekov's surprise, instead of turning on the two Enterprise officers, the freebooter pivoted towards the conn and fired at Goudchaux.

"I'd say it was because I thought he was pulling a knife," Brecht explained as the pirate captain fell. "But the truth is, I've just been wanting to shoot that son of a bitch for a long time now."

"There are more restraints in that locker, Chekov," Scott ordered, making no move against the freebooter. "Cuff them all up and see you do it properly."

"But Mister Scott," Chekov protested -- though at the same time moving towards the locker as directed. "What about Brecht?"

"It's all right, Ensign," Scott assured him, motioning Chen and Moray away from their stations as he moved to recover Khwaja's weapon. "He's an Orion agent."

"I know that," Chekov said, helping the unresisting Esme to the floor, then manacling her hands behind her. "He's an agent of the Orions."

Scott shook his head. "That's not what I mean."

"Let me explain it to him," Brecht offered. "Admiral, my weapon is not pointed at you right now -- but if you don't shut up that situation could change."

"That I understand," Chekov said sourly, stepping over to Chen. The big man flexed his muscles ominously once the cuffs were on him as if he were considering ripping them to bits, but made no other resistance.

Moray Morgain shook her head when the ensign motioned for her to lie next to Chen on the deck. "I can't believe you're doing this to me again."

"I'm only doing unto you as you have done unto me," Chekov replied unsympathetically as he clamped the black bands around her wrists.

"It ain't over 'til it's over, angel," she warned from the deck.

Goudchaux and Khwaja posed no challenge in their unconscious state. Once all five pirates were secured, Chekov held out his own wrists to Scott. "Now, take these off me."

Scott rolled his eyes heavenward and shook his head. "Chekov, yours will just snap open. I rigged them. Didn't you realise?"

Chekov very much wanted to punch Scott in the mouth. The engineer was just standing there, not expecting it, not about to dodge or defend himself. Even the fact that Brecht, or whatever his name really was -- Chekov didn't imagine he'd ever be allowed to know -- was there as a witness didn't seem a good enough reason not to do it.

His arm just seemed to be more disciplined than the rest of him.

He slowly unclenched his fist and pulled the manacles off both arms. Then he bent down and removed the larger ones from around his ankles. He straightened again and turned to go and greet his rescuers, without waiting to be dismissed.

"How did you do it? When did you have a chance to send a message?" Brecht asked.

"Oh?" Chekov responded as if surprised. "You haven't figured that out yet?"

When the 'lift doors closed, he rested his head in his hands and very much hoped that Sulu was going to be able to tell him how he'd done it. He was sure he didn't know himself.