By Jane Seaton

The guard moved aside and the door was pushed open, swinging ponderously against its automatic closures. As McCoy entered the hall, he looked around, trying to orient himself. The many occupants of the big space were Terran human, male, and mostly young to middle aged adults. Demos had been one of the very first commercial colonies, but although a founder member of the Federation, almost by default, it was not a typical UFP world, not by a long way.

McCoy caught Chekov's gaze, thirty feet away on the other side of a mesh barrier that ran the length of the chamber. As if it hurt to admit how eagerly he'd been waiting, the ensign turned away.

The doctor cursed under his breath. The barrier had desks on either side, and partitions giving the prisoners and visitors a bare privacy from one another while leaving them in full view of the staff. He wasn't going to be able to get within four feet of Chekov. This concession by the Demosian authorities was beginning to seem less and less generous.

The ensign rose to his feet as McCoy approached, only to be shouted at to sit down again. At least, that was how McCoy interpreted the order over the babble of so many voices. Chekov plainly understood it. He sat.

"Doctor."

McCoy pulled the chipped wooden chair out and sat briskly himself. "The locals aren't being overwhelmingly cooperative about this. We get the sense that some of them are highly embarrassed, but they aren't the ones with immediate influence. Starfleet's sending all the big guns…"

"But you will get me out."

"Yes. I just can't give you a timetable. There's no equivalent of bail pending appeal. It may take a little while, but we'll do it."

He watched Chekov clench his fists. "Come on, Mister Chekov. That's a promise. There's no way the Enterprise will leave orbit without you. I'm just saying don't hold your breath."

"I thought…"

"Yes?"

"Why didn't the captain come and tell me that? Why did he send you? Why couldn't he come himself..?"

"Hey, keep your voice down." McCoy shot nervous looks at the guards, turning them into dismissive scowls for the couple who were near enough to register his expression. "Listen, the law here allows you one annual visit. We persuaded them to bring it forward on the grounds that you had some vague medical problems, with the diet, or the day length, or anything else we could think of. Is there anything..?"

Chekov stared at him with a sort of offended bemusement. "Oh, no. I am quite well. Very well. But I didn't want to see you. I wanted to…" He pulled himself up. "One visit each year?"

"For anyone other than family members. That's slightly less than a Terran year, not that you're going to be here that long… Or anything like that long. I promise you." Chekov's gaze seemed to lower the surrounding temperature through a dozen degrees. "Now, how are you?"

Chekov unwound a fist and laid it palm up on the table. McCoy's eye ran up the forearm past a dressing that obviously hadn't been changed in the last twenty four hours.

"We weren't told you'd been injured. I'll complain. It's probably a bureaucratic snarl up. How bad is it?"

Chekov shrugged. "The other guy was worse."

"Christ, Chekov. Hasn't anyone explained there's remission for good behaviour… I mean, not that you're going to be here long enough for it to matter, but the more trouble you get into, the harder our case is to fight."

"There is no remission, Doctor."

"Yes, your sentence was the minimum thirty years, with potential fifty percent remission for…"

"There is no remission. I know what I'm talking about. The fifty percent doesn't work like that. It's a fifty percent penalty for each and every breach of regulations. Cumulative. Compound. My sentence now stands at forty five years. Less the thirty one hours I have spent here already."

McCoy was really wishing Chekov had got what he wanted, and Kirk was here dealing with this. "Are you sure you haven't…"

"Yes, doctor, I am very, very sure. I have had it thoroughly explained to me. I think you heard what you expected to hear, or wanted to hear, or something." The ensign shook his head, as if McCoy was somehow to blame for wanting to hear that the system offered a spark of hope.

"I'm sorry. Pavel, I'm sorry the captain didn't come. We were trying to be practical. Don't be angry with us."

"I'm too angry to care."

McCoy took a deep breath. Plainly the ensign did care, very much. Perhaps it was self defense. Perhaps in the short term, anger was less deadly than despair. He hoped it wouldn't matter which was the more poisonous beyond that.

"You can write and receive letters…"

"They censor them."

"Well, what the hell does that matter? What were you planning to…"

"They censor them coming in. They don't censor them going out, because the idea is everyone should know just how unpleasant it is inside here." Chekov's voice was wavering now between sarcasm and tears. "I thought I could write to everyone and tell how it is when they corner you in the cell blocks and…"

"Pavel…"

"Don't say it? You don't want to know?"

"No, I… No, I suppose I don't want to know. But…"

"It hasn't happened yet. Quite. A guard turned round and came back for something. One of the guards who doesn't ignore such things. But it is presumably only a matter of time… Tomorrow maybe. Or the next day. No, more likely and the next day. Well, it's something to write about. The scenery isn't very interesting."

McCoy reflected that if the authorities didn't censor outgoing mail, maybe Kirk would have to. That kind of outrage would have the Enterprise crew fit to phaser the local populace, especially the smugger varieties of politician.

"Look, there are ways of dealing with that kind of thing…"

Chekov nodded. "I know there are. I can let it happen once, let everyone think I don't give a damn and join in next time…"

"That wasn't what I…"

"Or I can find someone to protect me… at a cost."

"No. Look, there must be some other men in here with a shred of decency, or the intelligence to want to manage what's going to happen to them…"

"All there are in here are men who know they can never get out."

"Then they have an interest in making life in here tolerable, don't they? You're supposed to be an officer, not someone who gives up, or lets…"

"Did you come here just to tell me that?"

"What do you want me to tell you? What could the captain have said..?"

"He wouldn't have needed to say anything." Chekov stared McCoy down. "I would have known he cared enough to come."

McCoy paused a moment to sort out an answer. The ensign was right. Jim was the jail breaker, the action hero. The one who could deliver, not just promise. "Chekov, I already explained to you. You're getting a visit because the authorities were persuaded you needed medical advice. There was no way we could claim that Captain Kirk is a doctor. I… I understand your disappointment, but you can't put that interpretation on it."

Chekov didn't respond.

"And you are going to get out. I've told you that. Look, one thing that's been suggested, is protective isolation…"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Because it's not solitary confinement, if that's what you think. It's what they do with the… the psychopaths, the…"

"You'd be physically safe…"

"No. To be among people who are insane, all the time… No. The only way I will be physically safe in here is by being someone everyone is afraid of, or by being protected by someone like that."

"Chekov…"

"What?"

"Think of it in terms of a month. I'm sure it won't be that long, but if a month is the worst you have to deal with…"

McCoy stopped. From Chekov's expression it was perfectly clear that while he'd been talking up the worst possible scenario, somewhere inside he'd been nursing the conviction that he'd be out later today, tomorrow if things went as badly as anyone could possibly imagine.

"What are you saying, a month?"

'You should really be better at handling this sort of thing,' McCoy told himself tiredly. 'Haven't you learned not to tell your patient he only has a few hours to live while he's still going through the brochures for the four system cruise?'

"Plan for a month. Then you can't be disappointed. Find someone who'll look out for you if you do the same for him. If you get it wrong the first time, don't give up. If anything… If the worst happens, you have to keep going regardless. You can get angry when you get out. For now you've got one job, and one job only. That's to survive without getting into any trouble you can be blamed for. Those are your orders, and Starfleet regulations about your behaviour apply just as much while you're in here as anywhere else. You're a representative of Starfleet. Wherever you happen to be." He paused to monitor how Chekov was taking the unsympathetic tirade. Quietly, it seemed; thoughtfully even. "It's simply the prime directive, Ensign. It's a situation we've been in before."

"You got five more minutes," one of the guards informed them coming to stand behind Chekov and glancing curiously at McCoy.

Chekov stood up. "We have finished."

The guard scowled. "Look, I heard you two were disagreein' about somethin', but you don't get many visits. Don't you think you should make the most of it?"

"I am ready to go now." The ensign turned his back on the mesh screen. The guard shrugged. "Quite a bunch of 'em take it like this. He'll come roun'," he told McCoy apologetically. "Be pleased to see you next time. It's too soon after he got here."

"The way you have the system set up, what other way is there for him to take it?" McCoy demanded. Then he thought better of it. "Look, I don't mean that. I'm sorry."

The guard shrugged again. "Sure you mean it. This whole place is a riot waitin' to happen. There i'n't nothin' we can offer 'em. The ones who come in soft… the ones who ain't bad through and through, I mean… they harden up until they can take care of themselves, or they learn to let someone else take care of them." He gestured at Chekov as if the ensign couldn't hear. "He's on one of the soft blocks. He'll do." Then he addressed to the prisoner. "You want your five minutes?"

"No."

"'Kay then. Walk over there to the red door and wait."

McCoy watched Chekov obey the order, joining half a dozen other young men by the door, at that distance becoming indistinguishable, another figure in bright blue uniform. "Five seven two four." McCoy repeated aloud the number that had been stencilled in orange on the back of the prison shirt. "How many prisoners do you have here? If you don't mind me asking?"

"I don' mind. 'Bout five, six hundred in this block. Ten blocks on this wing…"

"Dear God. Look, do you work with the prisoners, I mean, not just in here?"

"I'll see him aroun', if that's what you're wantin' to know…" The man was looking expectant and helpful, which somehow was less reassuring than it should have been.

"Yes, if you could do that… but I was thinking, you said some prisoners aren't bad through and through. I thought, if you want to help him keep out of trouble, which has to mean less work for you, help him to find someone he can team up with…"

"You talkin' 'bout a buddy. Sure, that's what he needs. Better to come in with one already, but… I'll see what I can do. Can't promise…"

"No. I realise that. Whatever you can do…"

"Tell you what, if you were to say he needed drugs of some sort, give him something to bargain with…"

McCoy froze his face before it could give him away. He couldn't afford to make enemies for Chekov. "Well, maybe I could do something like that. I don't know…"

***

In the queue to pass through the gates back into the cell block, Chekov found himself behind another prisoner he'd had pointed out to him by several fellow inmates with a taste for horror stories. 'The Bear' was supposed to have pulled a guard's head off during a disturbance, not in this block, or at any specified time. It was part of the mythology of the prison though. Looking up at the man, and sighting from side to side across the width of his shoulders from this close to, Chekov found it easier to believe the story than he had previously. The prisoner was humming to himself, an irritating little run of melody that Chekov suspected a smaller person would have been told to leave off with pretty quickly. The prison was full of men with irritating nervous habits, men who stood too close to you, or clenched and unclenched their fists for no reason, or argued with themselves in rapid, angry voices. Men who smelled afraid.

"Well, our two celebrities." The ensign turned a fraction but no further, registering that the back of the queue had been favoured with the arrival of a talkative redhead he'd met at breakfast. Despite the 'no talking at meal times' rule, the 'no talking just about everywhere' rule for that matter, this prisoner seemed unable to stop a flow of irritating nonsense. "The man from outer space and the nigger who eats people."

"I don' eat people."

The Bear's delivery was slow. He was staring over the top of Chekov's head, a darker flush rising into his pale brown face. He clenched his fists and lifted one of them, so that it threatened Chekov more than the redhead.

"It was a joke, Bruno. Can't you take a joke?" The redhead's voice turned wheedily

"Yeah, I c'n take a joke."

Chekov glanced round to see what had cooled the confrontation. The only guards around were busy processing men through the gate, removing the alarm tags they all wore for the trip outside their designated area.

"Next!"

The order rang out from the guards either side of the gate simultaneously and Chekov and the Bear both moved forward.

A vicious tug at Chekov's earlobe marked the removal of the tag. He reached up to his ear and brought his fingers away tipped with blood. The guard on the other side was having a harder time of it. "Come on, Sambo, I can' reach! Will you get down where I c'n unclip this damn thing!"

Chekov drew in a sharp breath. He hadn't heard what was supposed to have provoked the giant to decapitate someone, but he didn't want to be near the next time it happened. Unexpectedly, the Bear laughed and knelt down. He was still almost as tall as the guard, who calmly used the unlocking device to strip the man's ear of its temporary adornment.

"Okay, move on," Chekov's guard was telling him. The ensign obeyed reluctantly. He felt safest in places like queues, with everyone's attention focused on something up ahead - a meal, a shower - and enough guards around to ensure reasonable behaviour. In corridors and wash blocks, dining halls and exercise yards, and in the shared cells, he felt threatened. Now there was a hundred yard, twilight walk back along the tunnel to the block he'd just been assigned to. With the Bear ahead of him and the redhead about to come through the gate behind.

He started to jog. "Hey! No running!"

At that the Bear turned round and looked at him. A dull, unquestioning look. Chekov dipped his gaze to the floor. He'd thought the line, "What do you think you're staring at?" was a bad joke from ancient prison melodramas. He hadn't appreciated until now how the tension of close confinement could make an unwelcome look an insult, and an insult a reason to kill.

"You're go'to get out of here, aren't you?"

He couldn't help looking up. "I hope so…"

"No. Everyone sayin' you go'to get out."

"Well, I don't see how they can know that."

"Uh-huh."

The ensign glanced back. The redhead had been delayed by something.

"What do they call you?"

"What? Chekov. Pavel Chekov." After a moment he remembered his manners. "You?"

"You know wha' they call me."

The giant continued to pace heavily down the tunnel. Chekov, keeping a wary double arms length between them, walked beside him. As they drew close to the far gate, the Bear spoke again. "I wan' talk to you, Chekov. I'll find you."

"What about..?"

"Move!" The grill slid open to let them out of the tunnel, and the conversation was over.

***

"Collect your belongings from your cell, twenty four. You been reassigned."

Belongings was a joke. Everything Chekov owned had been taken from him on arrival, to be replaced by coveralls, canvas shoes with thin plastic soles, a new toothbrush and a less than new wash rag in a transparent waterproof bag.

"You in nine fifty seven." The guard who'd checked him into the block the previous day gestured at a passing prisoner. "Show him where to put his stuff. Then take him straight out to the yard."

"Nine fifty seven, nine fifty seven, nine fifty seven," the escort chanted through his nose, as if he were in danger of forgetting their destination. Chekov tried to ignore him and simultaneously to study the numbers on the doors they were passing to see if there was a pattern that would enable him to predict where his new home would be. One or two cell doors were open. Inside, the walls were lined with triple tiers of bunks. It looked like he'd be sharing with eight other men now, rather than the two new arrivals whose muttering had kept him awake the previous night. . Eight criminals, possibly murderers, drug dealers, arsonists, rapists…

"In there."

Chekov came round from his reverie. The door the man was pointing to had no number and no surveillance grille. It was a cupboard.

"I think you've made a mistake…"

"I think you about to make a mistake. Someone wants to see you, in there. Get in."

A dinner knife slipped down the prisoner's sleeve and into his palm. Its blade was sharpened to a gleaming sliver. Chekov hesitated, little as he wanted to defy the owner of that weapon.

"Open the door and get in."

The prisoner danced forward half a step, thrusting with the knife. Intellectually, Chekov knew he could probably disarm him but his body wouldn't translate that conviction into action. He stumbled against the door, almost overbalancing when it opened unresistingly. An arm pulled him inside and drew him into the darkness.

"Good. Now we c'n talk."

He recognised the voice instantly. It was the Bear, and it seemed as though his words reverberated along the whole length of his body, giving them a rich depth.

"What do you want to talk about?" Chekov didn't mind talking, if that was all the man really wanted, provided it didn't take so long that he got into trouble for being late at his next destination.

"Si'down."

"Okay. I'll sit down." Straining his eyes in the darkness, Chekov made out what he thought was a pile of boxes and tried his weight on them. They bore it.

"You got a girlfrien'?"

For a moment, the ensign was surprised, then he guessed where this conversation was going. He'd heard a few like it already. He'd been brought here so that he could describe some woman of his acquaintance as aural pornography for another prisoner's use.

"No."

"Not at all? Not ever?" The Bear's reaction was childish astonishment. "Everyone else in here got a girlfrien' outside. I got a girlfrien' outside. Someone to think about…"

"Well, I do not."

"Didn' you have a girlfrien' ever?"

Chekov hesitated. One of the curiosities of Demosian society was its strong homophobia. It had been footnote in a sociology text until now, but the ensign suddenly realised he'd better be careful what he said on this subject. "What does it matter to you?"

"It don' matter. But… You go'to get out of here, right?"

"I have told you already. I don't know."

"Well, when you do, I'd like for you to take her somethin', my girlfrien', I mean."

"Well, yes, I could do that. If I do ever get out. I can't promise…" McCoy had promised, but he didn't trust that promise enough to share it. "Can't you send it to her, write to her…"

"I can' write…"

"I could write for you…"

"She can' read."

"Oh."

"She's nice. She's not pretty, but she's nice. Nice to hold. Nice to kiss, you know? You never had a girlfrien'?"

"I would just prefer not to talk about it."

"Ah," the Bear sighed confidentially. "You better tell everyone you got a girlfrien', then. Li'l guy like you, someone'll kill you jus' for fun, they think you like that. You understand?"

Chekov swallowed. He understood perfectly now. "I just don't believe my girlfriend is anyone else's business. But I am sure yours is nice, and I would be happy to take something to her, if I do get out."

He could almost hear the Bear purr at getting what he apparently wanted.

After a moment the silence in the cupboard took on an expectant quality.

"Is that all? Can I go now? I think I'm meant to be somewhere…"

"What you wan' from me then?"

A surprised 'nothing' almost tumbled over Chekov's lips before he could catch it. This prisoner was feared, had faced down the redhead without doing more than looking willing to fight, could send a knife-wielding underling to fetch Chekov for him. He might or might not be as stupid as he seemed, but Chekov decided on the spur of the moment that he could do worse than ask the Bear to look out for him.

"I need someone I can trust, a friend…"

"A buddy. Yeah. I'll be your buddy."

"Good. Thank you… I don't know your name, your real name…"

"My buddies call me Bruno. Everyone call me Bruno." The Bear stood and pulled the door open. Outside the prisoner was still waiting. Bruno grabbed the man by the throat and pushed him up against the wall, so that his toes barely touched the ground. "Chekov's my buddy now, understand? You don' touch him. No one touch him. If anyone touch him, you tell me, I kill them. Understan'?"

The man made a throaty gulping sound and nodded his head as far as he could before he choked on the Bear's knuckles.

"Good." Dropping him back onto his feet, Bruno rubbed his hands together. "Now, let's go put your roll in my cell."

***

Nine fifty seven was just a few doors away, the Bear's cell a little further beyond. A weasel faced man, half-heartedly smearing the sanitary fittings with a grey cloth, was ordered to clear his bedding off the bunk below the giant and sent scurrying off to Chekov's billet.

"But won't the guards…"

"You and me are buddies. Buddies need to watch for each other at night too."

Chekov felt as if he'd ventured out onto quicksand. But perhaps he had to accept Bruno with all his drawbacks. By definition, anyone he tried to team up with in here was going to have some flaw.

"Well, okay. I should be in the exercise yard now, according to the guard…"

"'Kay." The Bear followed him like a devoted dog along the corridors to the exercise yard, booming instructions at every turning. "Right here… Left here. Here we are."

"You're late!" a thin-featured guard yelled, registering their emergence into the grey daylight that filtered through a mesh screen overhead. "Keep moving, keep the pace even, don't bunch up, get those clothes off and get in the line there. No talking…" He barked out a stream of orders that applied first to the miserable double circle of prisoners marching in counter revolutions to each other, then to the newcomers, then to everyone again without adjustment in volume.

It was winter cold in the yard, but the men who circled endlessly were wearing only shorts and singlets in various shades of faded grey. Their blue overalls were rolled and lined up along one of the walls. Bruno drew Chekov to the far end of the row of bundles and stripped off himself, while the ensign followed suit, shivering in anticipation. He hoped the pace of the forced march was going to pick up a little. As slow as it was at present, it was practically torture.

He slipped his shoes back on and joined the outer circle behind Bruno when a large enough gap presented itself.

At first he was aware only of the miserable cold but very soon he realised that despite the precaution of having the two sets of men march in opposite directions, there were conversations going on. Some prisoners were muttering a phrase at a time as whoever they wanted to speak to came round, but a few, including the man immediately behind Chekov, seemed to be enjoying four or five different discussions, juggling the conversations effortlessly. With all the panache of a circus performer, the man enrolled the newcomer in the act. "You must be the guy from Earth, right?"

"Yes," Chekov admitted, already tuned in enough not to turn and look. He ignored the next two remarks the man made, as not addressed to him.

"What cell are you in? Nine fifty seven?"

The ensign didn't answer, out of caution and a sudden reluctance to admit to his status as the Bear's protégé.

"Didn't you hear me? I said what cell are you in?"

"Why do you want to know?" He was still looking straight ahead, but he realised suddenly that that was a mistake as his eyes met those of the thin faced guard.

"Out here, twenty four."

He dropped out of the file and walked smartly over to three men in black uniforms who between them were supervising the yard. They looked at each other and then at him.

"Are you allowed to talk in the yard, twenty four?" one of them asked him.

"No, sir."

"Were you talking, twenty four?" another demanded.

"Yes, sir." Chekov did his best to block out the cold, the way his limbs were trembling, the fact that they were in sharply creased uniforms and he was in third hand underwear. 'I don't deserve to be here. I don't have to be frightened of these people…'

"Put him in the butt." It was the thin faced guard's turn now. His colleagues grabbed Chekov by an arm each and marched him over to a metal tank four feet high and maybe five feet on a side. It was brimming full of dark water.

Chekov surfaced spluttering. The wheel within a wheel of prisoners was still moving. No one was actually turning their heads to watch him, but as they faced him, their expressions were as cold as the water.

"Back in the line, twenty four."

By now, Chekov was so cold he could hardly catch his breath.

"What cell are you in?" the voice behind him repeated once they were facing away from all the guards.

"Fuck off," Chekov risked saying and after that he was silent.

He was still shaking when they were told to stop. They stood motionless as prisoners were sent to dress, in what he guessed was the order in which they'd first arrived, making him the last to get to his clothes.

The thin-faced guard came over as he struggled with numb fingers to pull his uniform on over wet skin and underwear. "'Forty seven, 'twelve, keep him walking the yard 'til he stops shaking. Not you! Back in the line."

The Bear waited, expressionless, until Chekov shook his head fractionally then retreated awkwardly to join the other prisoners who waited in line to file back inside.

Chekov didn't wait for instructions. He returned to the circular path, so worn by the grind of exercise that the asphalt had a greasy polish to it, and started to pace around it, fast. As the prisoners vanished through the narrow doorway, the last guard followed them and the door swung shut. Forty seven and twelve wore red trustee armbands, a hot note in Chekov's frozen universe. Even moving with all the energy he could muster, he felt as if he'd been turned to ice.

"Here."

He stopped dead. One prisoner, his face a grey blur, was standing only a few inches in front of the ensign, holding something out.

"Here," the man repeated. Chekov forced his eyes to focus and realised he recognised him from the crowd in the wash block that morning.

"It's candy."

It was. Chocolate.

"What…d…d…d…do you w…want?"

"Keep walking."

Chekov stumbled as he obeyed but the man caught his arm and set him back on his feet. "Come on. You'll be okay in a moment. Here." This time the chocolate was broken into a couple of tiny pieces and pushed into his hand. His fingers fumbled it, but the man retrieved it before it fell and held it out as if he was feeding a horse. "Come on. Eat it."

"No." It could only have been the cold making him so stubborn. He wanted that sugar-rich morsel with an intensity that frightened him. But he feared what the guy was going to ask for in return.

"Okay. Then I'll eat it."

The chocolate vanished. The prisoner's mouth was sharply in focus as he masticated, smiling. Chekov turned away and started walking again.

"I've got more. It's not drugged, not poisoned. It's trustee candy. The gov'nor's little sweetener. What's your problem?"

"I don't know what you want." The shivers had subsided to the point where he could force himself to speak without stuttering.

"You're paranoid, you know. Running scared. What d'you think I want?"

"I don't know."

"This morning, what did you think we were going to do?"

There was another square of chocolate in the man's hand, and this time Chekov's fingers managed to fasten on it and carry it to his mouth. The burst of sweetness felt as good as any drug the ensign could imagine.

"Gang rape? No way. We don't have perverts like that on this block. They wouldn't last a minute. Anyway, you're Starfleet trained, aren't you? If you weren't so damn cold, you could take both of us, with your bare hands. Couldn't you?"

"What do you want?" The man might be right, but Chekov's muscles still felt like cotton wool.

"I want to get to know you, find out how useful you might be. That's all."

"I'm not going to do anything useful…"

"Not anything? All crimes the same in here. Talking, spitting, fighting, killing. It all makes no difference. You're here. And you'll stay here."

"There's still such a thing as right and wrong."

"No, no, no." The trustee shook his head exaggeratedly. "You make your own right and wrong. Doesn't Starfleet believe that? Every culture is entitled to say what's right and what's wrong?"

Chekov was too cold and dispirited to argue. It was why he was here, after all.

***

"Bring him in."

Chekov heard the order through the half open door. The summons to see the Governor, out of the blue, had him walking a tight rope between hope that this was his reprieve and the halfhearted expectation that Kirk would have found a way to make an unofficial visit.

He entered the room in the best parade ground manner, straightened up in front of the large, paper strewn desk and looked the man behind it straight in the eye.

The Governor shifted his pale grey eyes forty five degrees right and coughed unhappily.

"Ah, Chekov."

"Sir."

"Get me some coffee, Maddy. And… uh, perhaps Chekov here would… No, perhaps not. I've been interested to see how you'd settle in, Chekov. Very interested."

The ensign tried to keep his face expressionless. The Governor wasn't quite what he'd expected.

"You see…" The man rose out of his chair and began to pace up and down in the narrow corridor between his desk and the bookcases that lined the wall, stopping now and then to push a volume more precisely into place. "You see, certain people promoting a theory, if inmates had some experience of military discipline, sort of convict boot camp if you like, there'd be fewer disturbances in here. Fact that you managed to get involved in a violent confrontation within hours of arriving make that less compelling um… a less compelling ah… Maddy?"

"Hypothesis, sir?"

"Hypothesis, quite. Were you trying to make trouble?"

"No, sir."

"Ah."

"But…"

"Go on. Without prejudice, off the record. One man to another… Spit it out."

"I didn't realise that what I was doing would make trouble."

"Period of adjustment required, hm? Not so much boot camp, more an induction course into prison mores and manners. Can't see that winning votes at the Capitol. No."

"No, sir."

"Well." The Governor snatched a piece of paper off his desk. "Request here, for you to be transferred to Protective Isolation…"

"What?"

Chekov couldn't believe it. He thought at least he'd managed to get across to McCoy that being incarcerated in a population of hopeless inadequates, seasoned with the criminally insane, just so that he could be assaulted by psychopaths rather than criminals, was not what he wanted. "No…"

"Not what I'd choose. Worst accommodation — inmates wreck it, worst guards —good ones won't stay. Cameras making you feel like rat in a trap and dribbling incontinent multiple homicide in the next bed. Not a thing I can do about it, you see. Hopelessly overcrowded. Anyway, can't ignore this request. Anything happens to you, axe falls. Although…" The man stopped suddenly and stared out of the window, where the outer perimeter of the prison complex was discernible through the grim drizzle of rain. "Early retirement sometimes attractive option."

Chekov stood, caught between fury at McCoy and force of habit that told him what Starfleet decided, Pavel Chekov accepted. The desperate need to avoid what was about to happen to him won out over his conditioning.

"Couldn't you…"

"Hm?"

"If the Protective Isolation Unit is overcrowded, couldn't you just say that you will move me there as soon as a place becomes available, but that there are more urgent cases?"

"Could do, could do. Yes…" The Governor suddenly seemed to fire up with enthusiasm for this idea. "Yes, yes. Certainly. Good notion, only…"

"Yes, sir?"

"Matter of judgement, urgency of case. If you were to, say, just for argument's sake, get into another… incident, shall we say, might look like matter of misjudgement. You see?"

Chekov swallowed. "I would not make any complaint about anything that happens to me if you let me stay on the block where I am."

The Governor narrowed his eyes. "If someone kills you, not much comfort if you don't complain. Wouldn't anyway, would you?" He shrugged dismissively, an action that seemed to involve his entire upper body. "Riots, arguments… Can't give any guarantees. In a safe block, as blocks go… For now."

Chekov took a deep breath and said, with all the sincerity he could muster. "Sir, I would very much prefer to stay where I am now. I'll do whatever's necessary to make it possible for you to arrange that. Please."

The Governor abruptly dashed round the table and thumped him cheerfully on the back. "Letting the inmates take some responsibility for themselves. Yes. Good thought. Like it. Draw up a proposal. Good man." He turned away to the door, "Maddy!" and back to Chekov. "Right. That's that. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir."

"Wait. Letter. Thought you should see it. Trifle close to the wind… Give him his letter, Maddy."

Chekov followed the secretary into the outer office, where the guard who had escorted him here from the block still waited by the door. He was handed an opened envelope by the middle aged woman and she stood watching him as he looked at it. When he glanced up at her, she smiled. "It's the sort of letter that gets censored down to Dear whoever and Yours sincerely. I think he wanted you to be able to read it all."

Chekov pulled out a sheet of paper and unfolded it. Someone had crossed out the 'Ensign Chekov' and written in 'Pavel' by hand.

The letter started formally, setting out the various procedures that Starfleet was going through to secure his release, and continued:

'I have to say that on the basis of local legal advice, it seems there is no certainty that any of these avenues will be successful. We are also pursuing diplomatic routes. The Demosian government currently insists that no exceptions can be made to general law enforcement policy, however regrettable the consequences. It appears that the existence of such injustices is acknowledged and considered to be an acceptable cost in the 'war against crime'. In the words of the Minister for Justice, 'when a country is at war, young men die. We know that the innocent are sometimes wrongly incarcerated. They must consider that they are giving up their freedom for the sake of others. Crime is the most serious threat this society faces at this time.' I'm sure you will find that as uninspiring as I do.

If diplomacy fails, the Federation will consider economic and other sanctions, but such a policy would not be consistent with our overall objective of self-determination for member worlds. I anticipate that there will be an unofficial go slow on trade and other forms of cooperative endeavour by individual worlds and organisations. I will certainly do everything in my power to support such a response, if other measures are not successful. Obviously my position in Starfleet limits my options, but I'm sure that there will be others who will do everything possible on your behalf.

Your actions during the hostage crisis were in the best tradition of Starfleet. Your failure to follow the exact orders of the local authorities was, in my opinion, within your discretion as an officer at the centre of events and correctly prioritised the saving of lives before other considerations. I have recommended that your courage and resourcefulness be recognised, and can only hope that Command won't bow to political expediency and prefer to ignore my nomination.

Doctor McCoy says you hoped I would visit you. I thought that his skills might be more use. I apologise for my misjudgement.

Your duty now is to continue to uphold the ideals of Starfleet in a more difficult situation than you probably ever anticipated. You are always in our thoughts.'

When the secretary put out her hand Chekov returned the letter to her. Kirk had not, as McCoy had, held out any promise. Presumably whatever hope the doctor had relied on this morning had been shattered by later events.

"I'm not going to get out of here, am I?"

"You poor boy. Sit down."

She guided him into a chair and took both his hands. "This law is the ugliest piece of political thuggery I've ever seen on this planet. The Governor… You may not have much sympathy for him, but he knows it isn't going to work. The crime rate's gone down, I know, but the type of crime committed is a thousand times worse. People caught stealing might as well murder. And as for what's going to happen in here… I've heard rumours the government response will be to introduce the death penalty."

"Why are you telling me this?"

She took a deep breath. "Because you could so easily turn to the bad. For your own sake, don't."

"But what point is there…"

"If they bring in the death penalty for new convicts, it will be only a small step to using it to cull the numbers on the inside. On the other hand, if there is a riot, as there will be eventually… What is there to stop it when no one has anything to gain by good behaviour? If the prison complex is wrecked, there will be survivors. There won't be anywhere to put them. That's when they'll have to consider parole. You have to be one of the suitable candidates, and you have to retain enough of yourself that it's you who gets out, not just someone who looks like you but is twisted out of recognition."

Chekov guessed he wasn't the first person she'd said this to. "You think there will be a riot?"

"It might not happen for a year, or five, but eventually, yes."

From later today, to a month, to hoping for a catastrophe that he was as likely to perish in as escape by: Chekov had never realised that hope could mock you so cruelly. It was as if fate was playing with him before reeling him in, hooked and exhausted. "How can you work here?"

"It did some good. Just three weeks ago, I was able to write references for men who were leaving here and finding employment, settling down with their families again. Making a new start. I know why you're here and I'm ashamed of it. Don't make it worse by… Don't let them destroy you."

She was doing his crying for him.

He got out of the chair, embarrassed by her tears. "I'd better go."

"Yes. You had." She smiled with difficulty. "My son's not much younger than you. If he wound up in here, I'd shoot the damn President myself."

***

The next stop was the prison infirmary. Chekov had visited late in the evening after yesterday's 'incident', the one that had earned him an extra fifteen years behind bars. Now, it was operating at full stretch. After Chekov had queued for nearly two hours, in silence, an orderly with dirty nails took the bandage off his arm, pulled at the half healed graze with his thumbs and waved the patient away. "Go to room A."

Another queue. Chekov was reminded of pictures of Muscovites obtaining food before the demise of communism. At the head of the line, a man with a pinched face, far too young to be a doctor, was talking briefly to each prisoner before moving on to the next.

"Okay, this is your medical. If you have any medical problems at any time you can request an appointment with a doctor. Do you have any pre-existing medical conditions for which you've been receiving treatment. Do you have any physical disabilities. Have you been diagnosed as suffering from mental illness. Are you currently suffering from any sexually transmitted diseases. Are you a drug user. Are you homosexual. Have you been inoculated against all of these illnesses…" The man waved a printed list in front of Chekov's eyes. He pushed at an untidy heap of pale grey paper on the desk in front of him. "I can't see your notes… ah, here. No. No problems. Okay. You can go. Next."

Chekov had finally got back to the mainstream of prison life and into the queue for another tasteless, but mercifully hot meal. There was no sign of the Bear. As he came away from the hatch with a tray he was stopped by a guard who directed him out of the steady flow of men filling up tables one by one. The clangour of metal cutlery on metal plates on metal tables was nearly deafening and Chekov wasn't at all sure what he was being told to do.

"I'm sorry, I didn't…"

The guard just pointed. There was an open door at the end of the mess hall, through which another room was visible. Chekov shrugged and turned his steps in that direction.

The next room was smaller than the main hall, but equally over full of trestle tables. He looked round for an official or guard on duty who might want to talk to him. There were guards, but they were eating, at a table set on its own in one corner. Their plates were more generously filled than Chekov's. One looked up and waved him over, smiling round a mouthful of… of what Chekov realised close to wasn't quite the same food that he had on his plate. The guards appeared to be enjoying steak and fresh vegetables, rather than the greasy, pale grey pastry containing potato in gravy that had been ladled out of the metal trays as Chekov passed.

"You seen the doctor?"

It was the guard from the visiting hall.

"Yes, sir."

"'Yes, sir!' I don' of'en get spoken to like that. You in a better mood now?"

"Yes, sir."

"I told your frien' to make sure you had somethin'… somethin' for me." The guard frowned at Chekov's confusion. "You do know what I'm talkin' about, don' you?"

The ensign shook his head. "No, I don't."

"Your frien' tells the doctor here you need something, you get it from th'nfirmary every day, you hide it and give it to me. Simple. Right?"

"What sort of something?"

The guard leaned very close and said right into Chekov's face. "Drugs. Perskiption drugs. P'ticu'ly drugs that have t'be imported from offworld. Tell your frien' that. He'll know somethin'. Then you just make sure you remember what it's called when you get given it, tell me and there we are."

Chekov paled. There was no way McCoy was going to do that. "How can I tell him?"

"Write him. You allowed to write. No one looks at letters out much."

"But he won't…"

"He will." The guard seemed utterly certain of that. "You just tell him what'll happen t'you if he don'. You'll see."

"And what will happen? If he refuses, I mean?"

The guard shrugged. "Your wors' nightmares, pris'ner. Your wors' nightmares." He studied Chekov as if those nightmares were already being played out in the ensign's eyes but all Chekov could see for the moment was a mocking memory of McCoy's doggedly positive expression from the visiting hall.

"He can't do that. He should have told you he wouldn't."

"He didn' tell me nothin' of the sort. Said he'd think about it. Said if he knew what I wanted…"

"He's probably reported you for even suggesting it."

The guard pulled back. "He'd better not have, twenty four. 'Cause I'll still be here if he does, and I'll have a grudge to work off then, won' I?"

"But I don't have any influence over what Doctor McCoy does. I just don't believe he'll do what you ask. Even if I write to him…"

"You better believe he will. Here, sit down."

His plate was taken away and replaced by a somewhat crumpled sheet of lined paper and a blunt pencil.

"I can't write and ask him to… I just can't." Even the thought of anyone on the Enterprise reading such a letter made him feel physically sick.

The guard looked unexpectedly sympathetic. "All righ', kid. Don' go gettin' upset. We'll do somethin' else instead."

"You will?"

"Sure. I don' like upsettin' people. It's just my pay's the pits, eh?" The other guards around the table looked up and nodded. Chekov felt strongly that he was being set up for something.

"You just sit there for now, and when I've done eating, I'll beat your ass black'n'blue. Okay?"

"He won't do it," Chekov repeated doggedly, past believing that it made any difference, but since McCoy wouldn't cooperate, he might as well take the consequences now, rather than later when the doctor failed to deliver. What the hell could McCoy have said to make this man think for a moment that a Starfleet doctor would peddle drugs?

"You better hope he will." The guard slid his knife and fork together on his empty plate. "Com'on then."

A couple of the other guards laughed and got to their feet at the same time.

"Call me when you've finished," one of those still eating said without looking up. The man had a distinct Earth accent, not the usual Demosian drawl. A friend, Chekov thought irrationally. A saviour. He stopped pulling against the grip the three guards had taken on his arms.

"Why?" the drug-dealer asked pleasantly. "Too squeamish to watch?"

"No." The newcomer finished his mouthful of food and stuck his fork into another tender morsel. "You knock the fight out of him, it saves me the trouble. I prefer them… docile."

The rest of the guards seemed almost as taken aback by this as Chekov was.

"Sure, why not?" the drug dealer conceded eventually. "That okay with you?" he checked with the ensign mock considerately.

"I'll write the letter."

"No, you're right. Your doctor frien' won' play. Forget the letter."

"I'll write the letter for you. You'll get the drugs. I was lying." McCoy's failure to respond was something he could deal with later. And that was the last time he'd play for sympathy, or even try to tell the truth.

The guard returned the paper and pencil. He leaned over Chekov's shoulder, muttering the words under his breath as they formed. Nerves sent the ensign's handwriting looping into redundant curlicues but hell, he didn't want it to look like he'd sat down and written this in cold blood, did he?

"Good. Sensible." The letter disappeared into a jacket pocket. Chekov's meal was returned and he was waved over to an empty table to eat it. It had been barely warm when he'd first collected it, but now the gravy lay in a congealed slick over the surface. Everyone would be waiting to hear from him, and when a letter arrived, it would be a filthy, illiterate demand for drugs. Chekov pushed his food away, put his head down on his arms and tried to force the image of McCoy reading it out of his mind.

***

Filing out of the mess hall fifteen minutes later, Chekov felt a little numb still.

A second shift was queuing to enter the mess hall. For the rest of them, there was now a period of free association. Chekov looked around the landings to locate guards, then cursed himself. Why bother? The Bear, though: where was he?

The man who'd offered him the chocolate suddenly caught his eye and beckoned. "Over here. Leader wants to talk to you."

Chekov's instinctive reaction was to tell the trustee to mind his own business, but his experience with the drug peddling guard had daunted him. He shrugged and obeyed.

Leader turned out to be a middle aged man with a full beard and dry flaking skin, sitting at the foot of a flight of metal stairs. Apparently disinterested men were positioned around him, ignoring one another, like novice security guards on a plain clothes assignment. Several of them wore the trustee bands, but not Leader. Chekov sought again for a glimpse of his own minder amongst the prisoners, with no success. Maybe Bruno had somehow been allocated to the second shift.

Leader gestured to the empty step beside him. Chekov took it warily.

"Your name's Chekov, right?"

"Yes. And yours is…"

"Leader. Charles Leader." The man smiled charmingly. "But you can call me 'sir'."

"I don't see why I should."

Leader laughed now. "Then I'll have to explain it to you. In a moment. I want to know something first. Tell me how you come to be in here, Chekov. In detail."

"Why do you want to know?"

"Just answer the fucking question!" Leader smashed his fist against the banister, setting off a metallic clangour that rang for long seconds. Everything else fell deathly silent in response.

"Okay!" Chekov attributed his suddenly racing pulse to the display of aggression. He clenched his fists in his lap and took a deep breath. "The Enterprise brought a Federation delegation to Demos in response to a request from your government…"

"My government," Leader growled. "That's a good one."

"…For assistance with social problems, particularly an escalation of violent crime, drug abuse and economic inequality. Due to threats from opposition parties, to disrupt transporter function with random subspace signals, we were using a shuttle to bring the delegation to the Capitol for an initial meeting." Chekov paused for some signal that he was doing this correctly.

"Right. Go on."

"During the meeting, a group of armed individuals broke into the room and took seven people hostage. The seven included four citizens of Demos and three representatives of the Federation. The demands of the… the… " The careful evenhandedness of Chekov's original report to Captain Kirk evaporated under pressure. "The criminals demanded transport off the planet, a large quantity of precious commodities and guaranteed immunity for their families. The local security forces surrounded the area and refused to negotiate. One of the Federation representatives, a Doctor Chanel, was killed and her body thrown off the roof onto the ground below."

The ensign realised that he was shaking at least as much from the memory of her body smashing into the asphalt less than ten metres from the shuttle as from the threat Leader posed to him now.

"Go on," Leader repeated coldly.

"The government reiterated that it would not negotiate, in line with its recently declared Hard Line policy on crime. I was able to listen to public broadcast announcements…" Chekov explained, not wanting to give the impression that he'd had any part in the way the Demos authorities had handled the episode.

"Okay. Go on."

"I also was aware that the Federation had given Captain Kirk permission to use his discretion in offering passage away from Demos for the criminals and any hostages, if it would help to save lives, but the government had declined his offer of help. They said that giving in would only encourage others to take hostages."

"So?"

The men around them were silent. Chekov scraped his nails nervously against the tops of his thighs. "The authorities then imposed a communications blackout around the Capitol, jamming any broadcasts…"

"So you were out of contact with your superiors?"

"Yes. I approached the most senior security officer I could find, to say that the shuttle was available if they decided to allow the criminals to leave, or if they needed a medical evacuation. I also pointed out that the shuttle carried stun weapons that could be used on a blanket setting."

"And why wouldn't that have been a good idea?"

"They said that before surveillance equipment had been disabled, the criminals had placed explosives connected to… to…"

"Dead men's handles?" Leader smiled at one of his men, as if they'd worked all this out and Chekov was only confirming it. "They'd wired the hostages, right."

"I returned to the shuttle. I was still monitoring communications, hoping to receive instructions from my ship. I picked up a message from the authorities to the security officers at the scene. The terrorists had threatened to kill another hostage, a Demosian this time, in one hour if their demands were not met. In response, the security forces were instructed to use annihilating force against the criminals. They were to make no efforts to take prisoners or preserve the hostages."

"And what did you do?"

"I knew, from messages I'd heard and from the initial security review on board the Enterprise, that the hostages were being held in the original meeting room, and I remembered the exact location of that room on the upper floor of the Capitol building. The communications equipment and computer on the shuttle enabled me to break into the criminals' scrambled transmissions. I warned them what I was doing, then smashed the shuttle through the roof of the building and offered to take everyone to the Enterprise, on condition that the criminals abandoned their weapons and explosives. They agreed."

"What about transporters," Leader interrupted. "I know there are jamming grids built into all government offices and such like to prevent illegal use of transporters, but surely the Enterprise is sophisticated enough to get round that?"

Chekov recalled Scott cursing over the Demosian habit of weaving bits of high energy circuitry into their structures. He'd described it as worse than a man made ion storm, and gone off with a bad grace to ready the Enterprise's little fleet of shuttles for their visit. "No. I don't think we can. Transporters are very vulnerable to random noise, whether it's generated deliberately or naturally.

Leader nodded, and Chekov suddenly realised that the architects of this prison had probably followed the same basic security practices. No wonder Leader was interested in what the Enterprise could and couldn't do. There would have been the temptation to take Chekov, and perhaps a dozen guards, hostage and try to make an escape by bargaining directly with Kirk. "And when you arrived on board, your Captain very correctly handed the criminals, and you, over to the authorities."

"Yes." 'It's just a matter of form,' Kirk had told him. 'They've got their people out alive, we've got ours. The terrorists are in custody. They just have to settle whether they release you under diplomatic immunity and save face, or admit their policy is way off beam and name a planetary holiday after you.'

He hadn't even been allowed back to his cabin. Half an hour later, he'd watched a guard seal his uniform into a bag and list his personal effects. For more than forty eight hours now, a small voice inside him had been repeating endlessly 'I don't believe it. I don't believe it…'

"Have you ever broken the law before?"

"What?"

"Apart from soft drugs, petty theft, traffic violations…"

"No. I mean, I've never done any of those, or anything else."

"Without blemish. D'you think if we nail him to something and let him die, the Governor will open the gates and let us go?" The allusion was obviously too obscure for Leader's audience. They looked blank. "I suppose you think I should feel sorry for you? I don't. But… There must be a hell of a lot of people out there who feel embarrassed about you, don't you think?"

"I… I don't know."

"They don't need to feel embarrassed about me, or about him, or him. They're happy to forget about us, or enjoy their self-righteous freedom while we rot. But you… I've a feeling you aren't going to go away. Maybe if something really dreadful happened to you in here…" Leader speculated.

Chekov gripped the edge of the tread he was seated on.

"No. I suppose they could keep it quiet…"

They wouldn't even need to do that, the ensign reflected bitterly, recalling his ill-advised deal with the Governor. Protective Isolation was beginning to look like a better and better option.

"You don't like that idea?" Leader probed.

"I don't think so. No."

"Well, maybe it wouldn't be an efficient way to utilise you. Let me tell you why you're going to stay on my right side. You probably haven't worked this out yet, but you're a fortunate man. I control this block and nothing happens here that I don't approve of. Now, I understand you've made your own arrangements with our friend the Bear. I don't mind that, but both of you have to understand that it's not allowed to interfere with my arrangements."

"If you leave me alone, it doesn't have to."

"But it already has, Chekov. It already has."

"I don't see…"

"I don't care whether you see or not. If I say it, it's so. Twenty minutes ago, one of my men was found at the foot of the stairs on the main hall, the one who spoke to you in the exercise yard, who asked you which cell you were in."

"I…"

"Don't see what that has to do with you? Just a coincidence?"

"Well…" Chekov was hit by something near to panic. His arrangement with Bruno had been dangerously open-ended. What if the Bear had killed someone?

"Maybe the Bear flipped him over, maybe he slipped. Maybe the Governor is signing my release papers this very minute." Leader smiled again, then drew his face into a scowl that scored deep lines around his mouth. "I don't think so, Chekov. Now, he was just asking you a polite question, wasn't he?"

"But…"

"Not his responsibility if you're too stupid to know when to keep your mouth shut, is it?"

Chekov declined to answer.

"Well you listen to me. This is my wing. I keep it in order. I select who comes here. Your pet nigger…"

"Don't call him that!"

Leader looked at Chekov, astonished. "Don't call him what?"

"Bruno. Don't call him a 'nigger'." Chekov almost bit his tongue. This wasn't Earth. It was a prison full of lifers on a planet of the damned. Verbal racial abuse was probably the least of anyone's problems. He glanced round and noted that every one of Leader's minders was fair skinned.

Leader was still talking. "Why the hell not? He is one. But he's also unimportant. You're going to be useful. If the two of you lead each other astray and make trouble, well… The Governor sends in more guards. He stops thinking this is the wing where he puts the good boys. We get unpleasant characters moving in. The guards are not the friendly types we enjoy such good relations with at the moment. They start searching us, waking us up in the middle of the night, finding excuses to beat us up, losing keys, withdrawing the little comforts that mean so much to us. Do you see?"

Chekov bit his lip. "I do not intend to make any trouble for anyone."

"You little fool." Leader was regarding him with contempt. The man sighed. "Still, you have your uses. I feel safer for having you here. And that's why I'm going to let you off lightly for what happened to Drake. This time. In future, you watch yourself… and your dancing bear." The man's yellowed eyes smiled unpleasantly. "And don't make the mistake of thinking he can protect you from me."

Leader nodded almost imperceptibly and two of his men stepped forward. Chekov felt two more behind him grab his arms. They marched him to one of the open cell doors. Chekov almost managed to pull out of their grasp as they manoeuvred him through, but four to one made resistance merely stupid. He was dragged into the middle of the cell and released.

"You're not using that brain of yours." The accusation was followed up by a punch that slammed Chekov into a bunk. He slid to his knees and braced himself for the next blow, but it didn't come.

"Think, stupid." His attacker was a middle aged man, rather thick set and fleshy. "What's this jail full of?"

"Prisoners?"

"Correct. And when are they going to get out?"

"When this planet elects a government with some sense?"

"Clever, but wrong. At least, it's wrong as far as ninety percent of the men in here are concerned, because they just don't think like that. Never. What is the answer?"

Chekov chewed his lip for a moment. "Never."

"Right. So what have they got to lose?"

"Nothing?"

"Correct again. Now, if I were to feel like, say, killing you, what is there to stop me?"

"Nothing?"

"Wrong that time. Mister Leader told me not to. While you're in this block, everyone knows Mister Leader doesn't want you dead. But suppose you weren't in this block, in Mister Leader's block. Where would you be?"

"I don't know."

"You'd be in another block. We'll let you take your pick. There are the blocks where the Governor's totally lost control. They deliver food and remove the bodies. Would you like to go to one of those?"

Chekov didn't answer.

"Or there are blocks with guards who don't have someone like Mister Leader to keep things organised for them. What does a guard do, on a block like that, full of prisoners with nothing to lose?"

"I don't know."

"They go round in groups of six or so, they use their stun guns a good deal… Have you ever been hit by a stun?"

"Yes."

"Oh, yes, I suppose you would have. Did you like it?"

"No."

"Imagine getting that most days. How long would it be, do you think, before your brain was scrambled? And if a prisoner does something they don't like, they put him in a cell by himself to cool off. And when they come back maybe twelve hours later, do you know what that prisoner has usually done?"

"No," Chekov admitted.

"Hung himself. You'd think they'd take the prisoners' belts away, wouldn't you? They don't. They'll even help tie a noose if you can't do it for yourself. Of course, in a situation like that, guards can't really do much about prisoners being unpleasant to each other. So the weak go to the wall. Have you had enough to eat while you've been in here?"

"Yes." It wasn't strictly true, but Chekov suspected he was at least getting enough calories.

"That's because the Governor shows his appreciation for the good order in here by being generous. Other blocks don't get so much, and no one checks everyone gets their share. Do you want to have to fight for your food?"

"No."

"And of course, where order breaks down, where social constraints are absent, men start to behave like pack animals. Frustrations build up, and they turn on the weakest. You know what I mean."

"Yes." It was obscene, Chekov reflected, that his best hope of safety lay with someone like Leader. But he had to accept the situation. This was where he was, this was how it worked.

"Good. You're back on the right track. Get up."

Chekov rose to his feet, feeling profoundly helpless. He could tell this wasn't over yet.

"Now there's the matter of what happened to Drake."

"I didn't want Bruno to…"

The man narrowed his eyes. "Bruno was working for you. That means you pay the price. If you want to take it out on Bruno after…"

Chekov's sceptical expression made the man smile. "Look, you want someone to work for you, you've got to be able to control them. That's why you're better off letting Mister Leader take charge. You can see that, can't you?" A small gesture summoned the man's three companions to come forward and drag Chekov over to a rack of bunks. His arms were quickly secured to a side rail using the webbing from under the top mattress. They never let him have enough leverage to even struggle.

The first blow slammed him against the bunks, so that the top rail and his chin collided, his ribs hit the middle rail and the dull pain from the fist in his back ached up and down his spine.

"Enough?" someone asked, just as he was bracing himself for the next punch.

"Uhn?" Chekov grunted round what was left of his tongue. He seemed to have put his teeth through it in at least two places.

"Look, I have to give you a few bruises, or Drake won't be happy, but we don't have to go on if you understand now. Do you understand?"

Chekov swallowed blood. "If I won't do what Leader tells me, I'll be moved to another block. I understand. And I'm better off here. And if I do stay here, I don't make trouble for Leader or any of his… his men. Is that what you want me to say?"

"Mm." The man didn't sound as if he was quite sure Chekov meant it, but hands started to untie the webbing round his wrists. Chekov thought of Kirk's letter. The final injunction to 'uphold the ideals of Starfleet', or whatever platitude Kirk had used, still grated as if on raw flesh, but he couldn't help asking himself if he was living up to that. Surely Kirk wouldn't require it of him if it wasn't possible? Leader was going to carry on, whether Chekov subscribed or not. The Governor seemed to approve of Leader, as far as Chekov could judge from his mumbled comments about the block. Probably that was why Chekov was here, because Leader maintained order, of a kind. Upholding the ideals of Starfleet… Well, he was surviving, and he probably wasn't making things any worse for anyone else. The ensign tried to convince himself that that was a start.

***

"I was careful," Bruno was still muttering, when their work brought them within communicating distance of each other. "I coul've waited till he was on the top landing." He shoved a table aside to mop underneath it. "I coul've held him by his heels and dropped him head first."

The supervising guard was ignoring them, maybe because Bruno seemed happy to work while he grumbled.

"I coul've broken his neck firs' then dropped him."

Chekov leaned on his mop, noting that the guard's attention was somewhere else for the moment. "You could have killed him."

"So what?"

"Look, Bruno, I am grateful for your help, but this is not working. You won't do either of us any good by annoying Leader. He is in charge in here, and if I stay on the right side of him…"

"You don' need to worry 'bout Leader. I'll look out for you."

"You can't! You can't protect me against guards, and Leader has too many men for you to protect me from him. You weren't even here when I needed you. It's no good, Bruno. It won't work. I'm better off trusting Leader to keep me safe."

Bruno was silent for a moment, then he looked up from his mopping. "You can' be one of Leader's men. He runs drugs, runs boys…"

"What?"

"Oh, he don' do that himself, but sometimes you get some kid put in here, young and pretty like, he'll fin' someone will do him favours in return for that kid bein' in their cell. You'll see. You'll see, if someone asks 'fyou can be put in their cell sometime. Leader'll just care what he c'n get for you. Nothin' else. You don' wan' trust Leader."

"I'll make my own decisions about who to trust!"

"You were go'to see my girlfrien', when you get out…"

"I'm not going to get out! Can't you get that straight!"

"I was only tryin' to do what you wanted."

Chekov swallowed his anger. "I know. And what I want now is that you stop. You beat up Drake, or whatever his name was, so Leader had his men beat me up. It didn't gain us anything."

"Leader had you beat up?" Bruno frowned. "I'll…"

"No, you will not! Just leave it!"

The guard swung round at the sound of raised voices. "Hey! You two should be working, not arguing." He came over to see how much they'd done. "You," pointing at Bruno, "finish up in here, boy. And you go stack chairs."

Chekov abandoned his mop and bucket, glad to obey and get away from Bruno. His stomach was churning to match his thoughts. Leader had seemed like a reasonable compromise until a moment ago, but he could see how naive he'd been. Of course someone like that would have a finger in all the immoral undercurrents of jail life. And of course Leader would sell anyone. It might suit him to have Chekov here, as a shield against trouble, but there was nothing to stop him exploiting the ensign in the meantime in whatever way he saw fit. Like everyone else, what did he have to lose?

***

"Chekov?"

Lights-out in the cells happened abruptly, but the fluorescent glare from the corridor strip lighting made sleep difficult.

The Bear hung over the edge of the top bunk and stared miserably at Chekov. He'd watched the ensign undress earlier, his dark eyes tracing the bruises. "I'm sorry." The huge man pronounced the words as if they were a charm of some sort. He frowned when they didn't work. "I said, I'm sorry."

"Okay."

"Really."

"Yes. Okay."

The frame of the triple bunk was bolted into the wall, but it still shook as the Bear shifted his weight.

"Chekov?"

He must have dozed off. His blankets had slipped and he was cold. "What is it?"

"Did Leader hurt you?"

"Shut up."

"They hurt me."

"What?" Chekov thought about that for a moment, trying to persuade himself he'd misheard. "Who hurt you?"

There was no answer from above. Chekov knelt up and leaned out of his bunk so that his face was a few inches from the back of Bruno's head. "Who hurt you?"

"Leader's men," Bruno said shortly, without turning.

"Badly? Did they hurt you badly?"

"S'my business."

"Oh, God." The ensign sank back under his covers.

"Chekov, if you're not go'to get out, no one is. Not no one. Never. None of us. I didn' do something that bad. Really I didn'. I don' wan' to stay here forever, not always. I wan' to go home. I won' hurt no one again. If they'd let me go home, to my girlfrien', I woul'n do anythin' bad. Not anythin'. Really. I'd promise. I'm tellin' you the truth. I am…" The giant was weeping. After a moment the sobs stopped. "They're evil, lockin' us up like this. Tha's what they are."

"Bruno, you should go to sleep. If someone catches you talking…"

There were muffled grunts and gulps from above, blending into bass snoring. The Bear seemed to have fallen asleep at last. The underside of the upper bunk faded out of focus as the ensign let his mind wander from one uncomfortable train of thought to another.

Plainly it wasn't going to be easy to jettison Bruno. Like a big eyed mongrel puppy, if neither so appealing nor so attractive, the prisoner seemed to be worming himself under Chekov's skin. Well, he'd fight it. He'd ditch Bruno, in a way the man couldn't ignore, at the first opportunity. Chekov turned over, thumping his fists on his bolster to flatten the lumps.

***

The prison sickbay was again threaded with queuing prisoners. Chekov found his heart pounding uncertainly. What would McCoy have done? Given him what he'd asked for? Or denied it? The very fact that he had been called here at all suggested the former, but surely McCoy wouldn't have given in… and if he hadn't, what would he have done instead? Did he have any idea of the consequences for Chekov if he didn't play along with the guards demands? Prisoners were emerging from the room where the queue ended, swearing and muttering. One or two looked worried. Very worried. Maybe this wasn't the room where they dispensed drugs at all. Maybe it was something worse. There seemed to be a larger than usual proportion of guards about.

Suddenly, an argument appeared to break out in the dispensary. Six extra guards pushed inside and more drifted over to stalk up and down the line of waiting prisoners. One man in prison uniform was dragged out of the room and taken away.

Then someone else emerged from the dispensary. Someone in police uniform, black: guards wore olive green. He surveyed the line with icy distaste before going back inside. About twenty minutes later, Chekov found himself at the front of the queue.

"Name?"

"Chekov…"

"Number?"

"Five seven two four."

"Right, twenty four. We've received notification that you require synnatrine. Why?"

"Uh… for… for respiratory problems," Chekov bluffed. He should have been ready. He should have thought. But what the hell was synnatrine?

"Is synnatrine indicated for 'respiratory problems'?" the policeman demanded of the bored looking individual on the other side of a table littered with cartons and tubs of medicines.

The doctor looked up at Chekov and smiled condescendingly. "If you didn't want the patient to recover."

"Why? What is it?"

"It's a mild sedative, not a particularly useful or effective one. If anything it would depress the breathing, make any problems worse. It also produces mild disorientation, nausea and a crashing headache if you take even a little too much. It's not a drug you'd take for fun."

"Who asked you to get this stuff?" the policeman asked Chekov direct.

This was obviously a clamp down on the very ruse that Chekov had been forced into by the guard. Chekov had realised by now that playing it straight was unlikely to get him anywhere. If anything, keeping quiet now would — might — help the guard involved to get over his disappointment.

"No one asked me to get — synnatrine."

"Of course not. They asked you to get detamil, or neurodex, or…"

"Yes," the doctor interrupted. "Synnatrine looks pretty much like neurodex." He picked up a small bottle and tipped half a dozen bottle green tablets into his hand. "It's designed to dissolve slowly in the stomach, so a patient can conceal it in his mouth until later, even swallow it and bring it up to order. But here's where the prisoner's pet doctor's been really clever. Neurodex will have no effect, say one dose in ten. He could pass this off as Neurodex and get away with it, for a while."

"Is synnatrine controlled?" the policeman demanded of one of his colleagues. Apparently it wasn't. Chekov silently released a sigh. Much as he hated McCoy right now, the feeling didn't extend to wanting his company in here.

He waited to be dismissed. Presumably they'd want to get to the people who were seriously intending to supply the demand for drugs in here.

"Well, he can take it then," the policeman decided.

"Okay," the doctor agreed. "According to this he's supposed to take it four hourly. So I imagine they thought I'd give him thirty capsules and let him walk out of here…"

"Or drag him in six times a day and have him throw up and pass them on one at a time," the policeman agreed. "We'd be neglecting our duty if we didn't make sure he got the benefit."

The doctor switched on the screen of his computer. "I'll prescribe it as a single injection in a slow release formula. That'll intensify the initial side effects, but won't reduce its therapeutic effectiveness."

Chekov looked from one man to the other, while the doctor turned to a metal cabinet on the wall behind the desk. Surely, if he didn't need the drugs, the logical response would simply be to refuse to prescribe them. He hadn't done anything wrong… he clearly hadn't intended to do anything wrong, except to placate the bullies who'd pushed him into this in the first place.

"I… I don't need the synnatrine. One of the guards threatened me, unless I obtained drugs for him. I don't know his name, but…"

"Don't bother," the policeman snapped. "Nothing will happen to him and he'll just take it out on you. Won't he? Didn't he warn you?"

"Then why are you…"

"We're looking for the doctors who are prepared to prescribe. And yours hasn't done anything criminal, yet. I think this'll teach him not to try it again. As for whoever told you to do this, he's already on the inside. It doesn't matter to me which colour uniform he's wearing."

"Roll up your sleeve." The doctor held out a hypo.

"No. I don't need it."

The doctor smiled again. " And I'm not going to start having wrestling matches with my patients."

Chekov looked around at the guards and policemen, all of whom seemed to be merely waiting for the doctor to ask them to assist. He fumbled to unfasten his cuff and pushed the sleeve up to his shoulder as well as he could, praying that the doctor, if he was a doctor and not merely a meat processing technician with delusions of grandeur, was exaggerating the side effects to mislead the policemen. The drug stung as it hissed under his skin. He waited for something to happen. After a moment, he realised there were twice as many people watching him. Then the pain started.

He was vaguely aware of someone dragging him into a toilet cubicle and leaving him there while his stomach tried to turn itself inside out.

***

"What are we doing in here?" Chekov surveyed the dirty little room Bruno had unexpectedly brought him to following the evening meal. It contained four rows of plastic chairs, inelegantly wired together. A prisoner was picking his way through the seats, putting a tattered sheet of paper on each one. Chekov still hadn't worked out any pattern in the way 'free association' followed some meals and not others, but Bruno seemed better prepared. He usually managed to lead Chekov away from the idle and irritable groups of men in the main hall at the heart of the block, to some alternative, better supervised, location.

"Havin' a rest," Bruno explained on this occasion. "Sunday." He sat down on the nearest chair and began folding his piece of paper concertina style. Still puzzled, Chekov came and sat next to him. After being thrown out of sickbay, still shaky and lightheaded, he felt as if he'd sleepwalked through the rest of the day. Maybe that was why people took drugs in the first place, not for any high, but for the sense of not truly being in an unbearable reality. But with his head still aching and his stomach turning somersaults at even the smell of food, it wasn't an experience he was going to repeat. If they called him back to sick bay in five days time for another dose… What the hell could he do about it if they did? One day at a time, he told himself. Or just one hour…

Other men were filing into the room in ones and twos, ignoring Chekov and his companion and taking seats, spread out as far as possible from one another.

The prisoner in charge of the papers had now moved to the back of the room, and after looking out of the door, as if for tardy but welcome guests, he shut the door and returned to the front. "Welcome, brothers…"

Chekov looked at Bruno.

The big man shrugged. "We c'n talk in here."

That did indeed seem to be the case. No one paid any obvious attention to the prisoner who appeared to be leading a vaguely Christian form of religious worship, and he in turn seemed unconcerned that he was making no impression on his congregation. There was a murmur of quiet conversation, but most of the men seemed content to close their eyes and just sit. Maybe they were listening, Chekov thought.

Two men in the row behind the ensign were gambling. There was a clatter of dice but they seemed to be playing wordlessly. Bored by the preacher's mumbling, Chekov turned to watch them.

"Wan' in?" One of them asked him.

"I don't have anything to bet with."

"Drugs?" the other suggested.

Chekov narrowed his eyes. "No."

"Food?"

"What?"

"S'always somone's hungry in here," Bruno explained, turning to join in the conversation. "So someone wants your food, and losin' it makes enough difference to make the bet exciting. Don' be stupid, Chekov. You don' need it."

"Fuck off, Bear. He don' need you to tell him what to do."

"So, d'you wan' in?" The two were like eager salesmen, closing on a good prospect.

"Uh, no, thank you."

"Well, you c'n bet a day's meals, maybe win some blacks, some twelves…"

Chekov looked round to Bruno for a translation.

"Drugs. You don' wan' them."

"Stay out of it, Bruno."

The ensign glanced guiltily at the preacher, aware that their conversation was no longer at whisper level. The man had stopped talking and was looking at him in turn, with a sort of despairing smile.

"The dice are loaded anyways," Bruno threw in.

Suddenly there was a knife in one man's hand and a row of chairs lying on their backs as the two gamblers stood. The knife waved threateningly between Chekov and his protector.

"You can't do that in here," the preacher warned them, absurdly impotent. "This is a…"

The chairs were constricting Chekov's movements, and anyway, he wasn't sure he could deal with both men before one of them hurt either him or Bruno. He eased the row of chairs in front of them away, trying to clear some space.

"Yeah, run away," one of the men said snidely.

Chekov was disciplined enough not to react to that, but he felt he had a duty to stand by Bruno, even if their protection deal was one-sided on the face of it. He could go for help, but he wasn't sure where he'd find a guard, or even if a guard would react quickly enough to do much good.

He glanced up to see if there was a surveillance camera but was distracted by a sudden yell of outrage. The knife wielder's overalls were slashed open down one sleeve and Bruno had the knife. Or Chekov thought he did. A moment later, the Bear's hands were empty again.

The gamblers salvaged their dice and as much face as they could by retreating noisily to the back row of chairs, leaving their former seats lying on their backs. Bruno didn't sit down again until they'd settled back to their gaming.

"Thank you…" Chekov began hesitantly.

"You listen," Bruno growled, taking him by surprise. "I'm s'posed to protec' you, you got t' let me do it. You got t'get right out my way. Not try to do somethin' stupid. I protect you. Not you protect me. Un'erstan'?"

"I'm sorry. I…"

"Jus' so you un'erstan'."

Chekov sat down too. Bruno's outburst had shaken him. He felt even less in control of the situation than he had when they were under attack. "I understand. All right? I understand."

***

"Visit schedule for today."

That phrase was the signal for the only willing, attentive silence in the block. While there were many inmates, Chekov among them, who had no reason to pay any attention to the list that followed, they still fell silent.

"Five three nine seven, Carter. Four zero two zero, Mostel. Five seven two four, Chekov…"

"Hey, that's you!"

"Ssshh!" A furious hiss of demands for silence almost drowned the next two names.

"I thought we were only permitted one visit a year…"

"No. Family's once a month. You got family here?"

"No." Chekov shook his head disbelievingly. "My family is on Earth. They couldn't have…" He shook his head again. "Who counts as family?"

"Parents, wife, kids, brothers, sisters, any woman you been living with." The convict in the next seat to Chekov shrugged resignedly. "I got all of those and there ain't none of them visited me yet."

"Report to gate six immediately. Gate six immediately." Chairs scraped back. No one else moved, letting the lucky ones out of the crowded hall as quickly as possible. Chekov just sat there.

"Go on. 'F you're late they won' let you through. Go on."

The man was like a child at someone else's birthday party. He gave Chekov an encouraging shove.

"I don't know who it is."

"What the hell does it matter? Hey, 'f they screwed up and it's my wife, tell her I'd like to…"

"Why should I bother? Just so that I can sit a couple of metres away from someone I can barely see through the wire…"

"Whoever she is, blow her a kiss for me."

"Smell her perfume," someone else suggested.

"Tha's why he won' go," a third man pointed out. "He di'n'get a shower this mornin'."

"Hey! Two four! Get off your ass and get to gate six! Now!"

A guard was pushing between the tables towards Chekov, looking disproportionately annoyed. He gestured the ensign to his feet. "It ain't voluntary, two four. Family visits are f'the benefit of pris'ners dependants. Pris'ners will cooperate with visiting procedures. Move."

Whoever it was, Chekov told himself, they might have come a long way, or gone to considerable trouble to make the visit. He stood up and followed the guard.

***

"Position seventeen."

Chekov fingered his tag unhappily as the queue edged forward. His ear had only just healed up from McCoy's visit. Given that he'd been in here for four and a half days, if his parents had set out immediately, and there had been a fast ship leaving just then… it still wasn't possible that they could be here. More to the point, he didn't want them to be here. His uncle was a commercial pilot. If he'd happened to be close by it could be him. He'd quite like to see his uncle Fyodor. He wouldn't take the whole situation too personally, or say anything overly optimistic about getting Chekov out, or weep. Did uncles count as family?

"Two four, position twenty one."

He pushed through the door into the big hall and walked smartly across to his assigned cubicle. If last time had been typical, he'd then have to sit and wait while his visitor walked the even longer distance across the other half of the room. So he'd know who it was and have time to decide how he wanted to react. Last time, he'd been so sure it would be Captain Kirk he'd never really got himself back together after the disappointment. Not that he regretted his rudeness to McCoy. Not any more.

Three visitors came in through the far door at once, all female. As they split and headed in different directions, Chekov recognised Uhura. She was out of uniform, wearing a pretty, more than usually modest dress in shades of grey and purple. She looked clean and beautiful.

The ensign felt a sudden almost overwhelming desire to leave before she reached him.

"Hi." She sat down and folded her hands in front of her on the table.

"How did you..?"

"We forged a marriage certificate."

"Oh."

"I'd have said I was your sister, but…"

"A marriage certificate?"

"Well… I suppose it was rather a cheek, but… We couldn't just leave."

He stared at her. "Lieutenant, tell me, does wire netting scramble audio signals? Because Doctor McCoy didn't seem to hear anything I said to him, and now I'm beginning to think I misunderstood everything he said to me."

Uhura reached out and touched the wire with the tips of her fingers. "Pavel, we're needed — somewhere else. And the Enterprise being here isn't actually making any difference in terms of getting you out. It might even be making it worse. You know we're not going to turn the phasers on the government, but certain people might think we're just hanging around to suggest that we would. And this is the stubborn, insecure type of regime that will dig its heels in and refuse to back down as long as they think we're waving a big stick. If we agree they have a perfect right to run their world how they like, they might just quietly let you out the back door — at least that's what we're hoping."

"And I'm not even allowed to know where you're going."

"Pavel, that's not important. We've talked to a lot of people. In the government and in the opposition. We're not going to make a fuss, at least to start with, and they're going to work on it behind the scenes. You just have to keep a low profile."

"What? You mean I can't book a front row seat at the first night of the opera? Or be seen eating in good restaurants? I'll try to remember. I don't know why I bother to listen to anything you say…"

"Please, don't be this way. Captain Kirk couldn't say anything in his letter… You did get his letter? I spent hours going through the censor's guidelines working out what he could say."

"So it was written by a committee."

"Please, Pavel."

"And as for the censor, you were wrong about that too. I don't imagine the censors ever read the guidelines anyway. I was shown it because someone took pity on me and pulled it out of the system."

"Did you get any of the other letters?"

"No."

"I imagine it may be rather slow, if they have to read them all. You will. There are two from your parents, and…"

"Stop it. I don't want to know. When are you leaving?"

"In two days. We have to rendezvous with the… with another ship. And we can't do that any earlier."

"Two days? Is that definite?"

She frowned at his sudden vehement concern over their schedule. "It's as fixed as anything ever is in Starfleet. Why?"

"I want to know. Why shouldn't I want to know?"

"I don't know. You seem to… It's almost as if you want to believe we'd just abandon you. You know we wouldn't. The captain's seconding Fryer to the Starfleet Office here, to turn every stone he can and keep us informed…"

Fryer was the Enterprise's legal researcher, a good friend of Chekov's. The ensign scowled as if he despised the man.

"Pavel, what else can I do? If I was wrong to come…"

Chekov frowned at her. "I don't know what to say to you. If I was sitting where you are I would not know what to say to me."

"Well, don't worry about it. I realise it's difficult. I'm not going to get annoyed with you…"

"Shut up!" He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. "I'm not apologising. I don't care if you don't like what I say. I'm not going to tell you I'm all right, because I'm not. I'm not all right at all. And when I have to talk to you, it's worse. You were wrong to come and I wish you hadn't."

"Okay," she said, after a moment of silence. Even the people either side of them seemed to have run out of things to say. "Shall I go?"

He glared at her. She looked close to tears, but he was still too angry to stop and think about she was feeling. "I'm not going to answer that. You do what you want."

Uhura sighed. "I want to be here with you. Is your arm okay?"

"What?"

"Doctor McCoy said you'd hurt your arm. Is it okay?"

"My arm?"

"Chekov? You had a dressing on your left arm. You'd been in a fight. What's the matter with you?" She bit off her exasperation too late.

"It's okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." He frowned. "Wasn't that dangerous?"

"Wasn't what dangerous?"

"The certificate, you said…"

"Oh no. I was joking about forging it. It was a Vanusssian nuptial license. As commander of a space vessel that's capable of spending more than ten Vanusssian solar cycles in deep space, Captain Kirk is authorised to marry anybody to anybody else, with or without their consent. They don't even have to be on board at any point. It's absolutely legal. We checked."

"Oh."

"Does that make it better or worse?"

"I don't know. I was just… It was such a stupid idea. Did Fryer think of it?" Once the fear that Uhura had put herself on the wrong side of Demosian law had been dispelled, Chekov was enraged that the stunt had been achieved without the need for anyone to take risks on his behalf. "Since he's my best legal hope now, I'd like to know."

"Oh, Pavel. Isn't there anything I can say? I know it looks hopeless, I know it must be awful in there — this room is bad enough — but… I thought it would help if I came. I wouldn't care what you said to me if it made you feel better, but I can see I'm just making it worse…"

"Why the hell do Vanusssians do that?"

Uhura blinked. "They have a strong religious requirement that they marry before they die, but their young men seem to have an equally strong aversion to getting paired off. So if a ship's in danger, the Captain just declares his entire crew married to whatever single females he can think of at the time. Presumably it causes horrendous problems if the ship survives…"

"Or if two ships get into danger simultaneously and both survive, and the Captains both thought of the same women…" Chekov speculated, deadpan.

"Well I don't know if they practice polyandry, or if maybe women provide their names in advance to a single ship… I mean, if the men are that reluctant, it might be their best bet for finding a husband."

"But then the women would have an interest in putting their name on more than one list, to maximise their chance of success.

"That's true. Perhaps the first marriage takes precedence…"

"Your time's up."

Uhura cursed under her breath, at herself mostly, for not finding a way to let Chekov talk about something other than himself from the start. She stood up. "You can write to us too, you know. Please do."

He shrugged, scowling at her. She'd thought he'd almost smiled a moment earlier, but if so, it hadn't lasted.

They both hesitated, each unwilling to be the first to turn away. Then Chekov swung round and marched off, leaving Uhura to say 'goodbye' to his back.

***

"You always call your wife 'Lieutenant'?" the guard demanded of Chekov when he reached the gate.

"It is a Vanusssian custom."

"Weird," the guard said. Chekov kept his face blank and didn't argue. He'd write. He knew he was allowed to write two letters a month, but he had no idea where he was supposed to obtain paper or pen, or even access to a chair and a flat surface to sit down and put the two together. He wondered vaguely if his 'letter' to McCoy had somehow gone through official channels and used up half his allowance already. He should write to his parents too… perhaps he could include a letter to them along with an apology to the lieutenant and she would forward it.

At the gate he was stopped by a guard he hadn't seen before. "Twenty four?"

It still took a moment to recognise the number as meaning him. "Yes… Sir."

"That way." The man pointed along a corridor that wasn't part of the block. "And move!"

Stubbornly, Chekov walked. "Move!"

He walked a little faster, but not much. At the far end of the corridor a breath of fresh air hit him like a cold shower. A double door swung open, and a couple of guards were standing by it, checking prisoners off against printed lists. He was lined up with about a dozen men, including Bruno, and eventually sent out into the grey morning.

Between two wings of the prison was what had formerly been an open space. Now it was full of scaffolding and machinery. Grit crunched underfoot. The sky above was the colour of damp concrete and the chill air made his freshly punched earlobe ache.

"What's happening?" Chekov asked the next man.

"Work," he was told.

"What sort of work?"

Another prisoner, one Chekov recognised vaguely as a member of Leader's inner circle, turned back. "Do as you're told. Don't talk."

The noise was almost unbearable. Machines were carving out shallow trenches across the narrow strip of land, while others were churning out a thick grey sludge and pouring it into shells clumsily constructed from fibreboard panels.

Chekov was directed to a production line dismantling scaffolding. Almost before the ensign had got into place he realised chunks of metal were hurtling towards him and his fellow workers from civilians working higher up. He dodged and a clamp hit the ground beside him and rang like a bell.

"Pick it up and put it in the skip," Leader's henchman told him shortly.

"But…" No gloves, no headgear, no one in charge as far as he could see. "This is dangerous. Someone's going to get hurt…"

"Oh yeah? And I know who. Shut up and do what you're told."

The work had sweat dripping inside his clothes while the cold metal robbed his hands of feeling, saving the grazes and bruises for later suffering. In a quiet moment, while the men dismantling the poles and planks moved down a level, Chekov edged up to Leader's man. "What's going on?"

"There was a riot at a camp they were using for low risk prisoners a couple of days ago. It was burnt out. They got to make space for twenty five thousand extra here by yesterday at the latest."

"But this is ridiculous. Why don't they use replicators to…"

"Probably cost too much. Concrete's cheap and convict labour's free, so that's what the gov'nor's using."

"Twenty five thousand?" Chekov tried to visualise that in terms of cells and communal space and realised he couldn't. "But those foundations…"

"That's not foundations. We're already half a dozen storeys up. They're just stripping the roof off the layer below to make service connections."

A behemoth of a machine suddenly started to vomit the sludge into a maze of fibreboard. Convicts with shovels were clearly supposed to be speeding its progress through the template of a hundred new cells, but they made less than willing workers.

"What is beneath here?"

"PI," the other man answered Chekov, and then the rain of cast iron started again.

There were, Chekov realised now, skylights set into what he'd taken for solid ground. They'd been covered over with corrugated metal but here and there the sheets had been pushed aside and not replaced.

There were people in there, he thought, who had probably seen daylight for the last time ever today.

The scaffolding was eventually removed and Chekov was sent to shovel aggregate, working around the skylights where men in civilian gear were bolting sheet metal in place to close them off permanently.

The shift was eight hours long, and by the end of that time dusk was already falling. Floodlights were switched on to bathe the building site in harsh white illumination and convicts from another block came out to form a night shift. The noise of the machines seemed to reverberate twice as loud and long in the miserable half darkness, and Chekov, stumbling back inside, was half aware that the din would penetrate throughout all the adjacent blocks if it kept up. He didn't think it would keep him awake though. He'd done remarkably little work, given the frenetic activity all around, but he was cold to the bone, every muscle ached and his ears were buzzing

There was some hold up in getting them back to their own block. Sardined in the gloomy corridor, Chekov found himself next to his informer again. "Why don't we just refuse to work?" he mused aloud. "How could they force us?"

The man looked surprised. "Oh, yeah," he said. "You were off visitin', weren't you. Well, according to the Gov'nor, we have a choice. He's only got so much to pay for building and ever'thing else. If we want to eat, we work…"

"What?"

"Well, he ain't quite goin' to starve us. But anyone who won't work gets only one meal a day."

"Surely he can't…"

"You don't believe it, you try going on strike, Chekov." The man smiled. "See what Leader has to say about that."

***

That evening dragged, even with lights out as early as it was. Chekov remembered his resolution to write but it seemed that paper was only available as part of 'education'. Presumably at some point he'd be summoned for half an hour of basic literacy tuition. The idea almost amused him. The Governor must have a list of basic facilities the prison was obliged to supply. Reading lessons, but not daylight. Library books, but not justice. Anyway, his hands were too sore tonight. He felt bone tired, too tired to think about writing. Eventually, the cell door clanged shut as the last man returned from the showers.

Sonics did nothing to ease anyone's aches and pains while the sour stink of the men whose turn to shower wouldn't come until tomorrow filled the cramped space. A buzz of bad temper vibrated in the air. Bruno squabbled with one man after another over this and that. Chekov just took to his bunk and turned his face to the wall. At least it seemed that the construction machines had been turned off.

The pitch of the argument suddenly rose sharply. Then the bunk rattled as a body was thrown against it. Someone started yelling.

"Shut up!"

Chekov turned now to see what was happening, even though he still didn't want to be involved. The Bear had someone's head in an armlock and his victim was kicking at the cell door with his bare heels, rattling it.

"Let him go, Bruno. Please."

The Bear gave the man's neck one last vicious twist and released him. "Why?"

The prisoner backed away from Bruno, rubbing his ears. "You sh'd keep your grizzly mor'in order, spaceman."

"You shouldn't annoy him."

"I didn' annoy him. I said I'd like t'screw your wife, tha's all."

It took Chekov a moment to work out what the man meant.

"Are you goin' to take that lyin' down too?"

Chekov reluctantly admitted to himself that the now aggressor looked scrawny only because he was standing next to Bruno, who was currently ignoring both of them with an expression of wounded self-righteousness.

"Since you can't get out of here, I don't care what you'd like to do."

"You wer'n' very pleased t'see her, were you? I guess you like bein' the Bear's cub better. Shame you two can' get a cell on your own."

The man waited a moment to see what Chekov would do. Then he leaned forward so that he was looming over the ensign. "Isn' it? Shame you two can' be alone together?"

Chekov rolled over, turning his back, only to be dragged out of his bunk by his shoulders, winding up in a disorganised heap at Bruno's feet. His patron looked down at him bitterly. "If a man said tha' 'bout my girlfrien' I'd kill him."

Chekov stood up with all the dignity he could muster. "She is quite capable of taking care of herself. It is not necessary for me to kill anyone."

"Wha'd he mean, you like bein' the Bear's cub?"

"I think he's implying that you and I are engaging in a homosexual relationship."

Bruno slapped Chekov across the mouth with one enormous hand, knocking him back across the room. Then he grabbed the other man by the ears and slammed his face into the bars of the opposite bunks. Everyone else backed away, as if afraid where the blood might fly, but Bruno stopped. "I's not necessary for me to kill anyone," he told his victim, then he turned back to Chekov. "You make jokes like that and I'll show you how much I'm missin' my girl for real, okay?"

"Yes, I'm sorry." Chekov frowned at the threat. If it meant what he thought it meant, it didn't seem entirely logical.

"You shoul'n't say thin's like that 'bout your frien's."

"Okay. I'm sorry."

The Bear turned back to the rest of the men in the cell. "He's married, he's not like that. And I got a girlfrien' outside. We just look out for each other. Tha's all."

Everyone nodded with self-serving zeal.

Bruno was evidently satisfied. He climbed into his bunk. Chekov followed suit. He lay there, feeling his lip swell, looking at the curve Bruno's bulk made in the straps above him. As Sulu was fond of saying, with friends like he seemed to have, who needed enemies?

***

The Enterprise was under attack. Red alert sirens were almost drowned out by the screams and concussions of the ship's hull tearing itself into fragments. Chekov was hanging on to the barrel of a phaser rifle, and someone was trying to wrestle it away from him…

"Wake up! You gotta wake up!"

He opened his eyes and struggled to make out Bruno's silhouette in the pathetic glow of the orange emergency light over the door. He could smell smoke, and the noise was men's voices yelling, echoing round the hard interior of the block. And doors rattling, and bunk frames thudding against the walls. "What…"

"S'riot, or som'thin. You stay with me. I'll take care of you."

"Yes."

"Get dressed." Bruno pushed Chekov's overalls at him and leaned against the bunk, waiting for him to struggle into them. The other inhabitants of the cell were also dressing, swearing at each other as they got in each other's way in their haste. One man was banging monotonously on the locked door of the cell, demanding to be let out. Two more were in the corner by the hand basin, soaking their clothes with scooped handfuls of cold water.

"Fire?" Chekov asked. Starfleet training made it almost impossible to panic, even when the air around him was quivering with frustrated terror. Bruno, though, was presumably just too stupid to be scared.

"Maybe. Jus' be ready to move. Keep cool."

The door swung open and was filled with armed guards before the prisoners could react. The one who'd been hammering on it was pushed back inside.

"Chekov, five seven two four. Out here, now."

"Hey!"

"What about the rest of us?"

"Wha's goin' on?"

"Stay back! Stay put!" One guard, phaser thrust out in front of him, pushed his way forward and hauled Chekov out from behind the other prisoners. He swung his phaser up to keep them under control as two more guards grabbed Chekov's arms and pulled him out of the cell. The hallway was rank with the smell of smoke, and barely brighter than the cell. The door clanged shut behind Chekov and he swung round, pulling himself free of the guards' grip. "What about…"

"Shut up. If you won't walk you can be dragged. Move."

"Chekov!" The voice rang out from behind the door, whether from fear at what was to happen to him or fear at being abandoned, the ensign couldn't tell. The panic finally infected him. He lashed out at the guards, only to find himself backed into the wall, staring at their phasers. The sirens still screamed. A hundred cell doors jumped in their frames under the pounding of frantic fists.

"What's happening?" He lowered his arms. "Just tell me what's happening… Please."

"Governor wants to see you. Don't know why. Turn roun'."

The reasonable tone of the answer, as much as anything, persuaded the ensign to cooperate. So this was it. What Leader had predicted was happening. They were moving him out of here before they disposed of everyone else. There wasn't anywhere safe in here.

He was marched the length of the block, to the landings by the visiting hall. It looked different. Normally, there barriers in place to control movement from one area to another. The barriers had been pushed aside and men in unfamiliar uniforms milled about, shouting.

Chekov's escort didn't even glance at the confusion. They pushed him towards the administration wing, and the Governor's office.

The klaxon's blare was muted. In contrast with the emergency lighting everywhere else, the corridor to the office was daylight bright. The secretary sat at her desk, coldly scrolling down a list of names on the screen of her computer. Chekov just knew she was deleting them.

"What's happening?" the ensign asked her. "Please?"

"There's been an accident in the building works to Unit 7. Part of the new structure has collapsed. Fortunately most of the construction workers were off site, or there would have been significant casualties."

"No one's been hurt?" He didn't believe it.

She stood up abruptly and took a coat from an open locker. "I think I may as well go home."

One of the guards put out a hand to stop her. "Uh, Mrs Keays, the Governor's orders are that no one's to leave the building until he gives clearance. There's to be a briefing for staff…"

"Are you saying I'm a prisoner here?"

"Emergency regulations." He seemed apologetic.

She dropped her coat on the floor. "Excuse me. I have to go wash my hands."

The guard nudged Chekov forward. "Go on. Go in."

The ensign had absolutely no idea what to expect. He pulled his shoulders back, the better to confront the unknown. The Governor's office was crowded and disordered. Part of the bookcase had transformed into a display screen on which a family played on a beach with the sort of glossy, plastic smiles normally reserved for advertising. The sound was drowned out by people talking into communicators, people yelling questions at each other, shouting orders and making demands. Chekov counted fifteen people in the room before he caught sight of the Governor, enthroned behind his desk, looking glazed and detached from the chaos.

"Chekov. Fetch him a chair, someone."

No one paid any attention.

"Then come and stand over here out of Maddie's way," the Governor continued, as if Chekov had politely declined the offer of a seat. The ensign squeezed past two senior guards who were hotly disputing something, each backing up their argument by reference to a plan of the prison on a small screen set into what Chekov had thought was an old-fashioned wooden desk. He wound up with his ear right by one of the display screen speakers, just in time for a fanfare of electronic trumpets.

"Just wanted to catch the news reports," the Governor apologised. "Be with you momentarily."

The all too familiar Capitol building, it's roofline still scarred and blackened, was floodlit in calm, green light, reflected off the rippled surface of an unseen pool, quite unlike the harsh white illumination used for the siege.

"…followed by a statement from Minister Karzowski on the current trade crisis," a voice announced. The view switched to the interior of the building. Chekov knew almost nothing about Demosian politics, but the talking head on the screen was momentarily subtitled as Ryan Jeffer, the Minister for Penal Affairs. Chekov shut out the babble around him and concentrated on the man whose policies had had such a devastating effect on his life.

"As promised," the Minister declared, "I'm bringing you an interim report on the operation of our new firm line on crime. And the news is mixed at this stage, as we anticipated, but the trend is clear. We are making progress and we will win." He stretched out a hand to adjust the orientation of an electronic prompt. "Crimes of fraud, tax evasion, forgery, drunkenness, vandalism, obtaining state aid by deception and illegal livestock movements have virtually ceased. There has been an apparent increase in murder, robbery with violence and, regrettably, resisting arrest. But the average citizen need not be concerned. These crimes are almost entirely restricted to zone four areas and the use of police cordons and intensive, proactive policing are successfully isolating the problem." Jeffer adopted a look of friendly determination. "We knew this would happen, as the final few members of the criminal classes were driven to ground. We're ready and their very desperation proves that we have the upper hand. However, to reassure the law-abiding majority, and to support our police and prison officers, as they put their lives at risk to maintain our safety, your government, of which I am proud to be a member, has decided to take one final step. From this moment, midnight on the seventeenth day of October, we have introduced the death penalty for the following offenses: Murder of a police officer, prison officer or elected member of government in the performance of his or her duties, substantial assault on the same class of persons, issuing or carrying out of threats against any of the above persons, and conspiracy to commit any of the above acts."

The minister's expression became more somber. "I know this step will not be universally welcomed. Believe me, I understand the reservations some of you have. But I cannot stand by and allow my officers to put their lives on the line knowing that I have not done all I can to protect them. I'm sure you'll accept that." Jeffer smiled again. "And it will work. We have achieved a situation where for anyone with any intelligence and self-respect, crime is no longer an option. There will always be a small minority who don't behave rationally: they are isolated, controlled, neutered. Once they are all behind bars, the problem will cease. We'll raise a new generation for whom crime will simply be unthinkable." He hesitated, before continuing with almost laughable gravity, "To those who have already given their lives in this battle, to anyone who thinks they've been harshly treated by the system we now have, I have this to say: Crime is our greatest enemy, far more destructive than any external threat to Demos. In our Terran history, millions of young men were proud to sacrifice their lives in the defense of our way of life. The sacrifice is no less honoured now."

There was applause from an unseen audience. "Bastard," someone said softly.

Chekov turned just as the Governor pressed the control to blank the screen. "Still," he continued in a louder voice, "seem to have kept the lid on it thus far."

"What has happened?" Chekov asked him.

"Topping off new Unit 7. Slight problem."

"Yes?"

"Seems, uh, seems structure insufficiently reinforced. Collapsed."

"On top of the PI unit?" Chekov asked, only superficially disbelieving. It was all too likely to be true, based on what he'd seen.

"Six levels… laying floors… framework gave way…"

"The roof of the PI unit…"

"Gave way."

Chekov did his best to be an officer and ignore his own narrow escape. "There may be survivors. The Enterprise…" If she was still in orbit…

"There are no survivors in PI. No survivors."

"There must be. Have you even looked?"

"No survivors."

"You don't even care, do you?"

"There are no survivors." The Governor suddenly frowned. "Of course there are no survivors. If there were… Any idea what would happen to someone who survived being buried in wet concrete? By the time you reached them, by the time you chipped them out, they'd have cooked. Of course they haven't survived."

"Transpo