Ganzar Chapter two

"Any sign of them?" Kirk asked, although he could already see from Johnson's face that the answer would be negative.

The other man shook his head grimly as he closed the doors of the airy guest room Kirk had been given. "None, sir."

"Damn." Kirk chewed his thumb thoughtfully. "There's been no word from either of them in almost twenty-four hours now. Assuming maximum velocity of the native forms of conveyance to be at around twenty miles per hour, that could put them anywhere within a five hundred mile radius."

"No, sir, not completely. Range is severely limited by the presence of ginzite, though. However we're satisfied that Lt. Commander Ghyka and Mr. Chekov are not in the city... at least not above ground."

Kirk frowned. The sight of Johnson didn't inspire much confidence. Although the man was undoubtedly competent, he was by far the shortest, frailest looking red shirt Kirk had ever seen. "You've got to be sure. If the tricorders don't work they way they are, find a way to modify the tricorders."

"I'll notify the local officials that we have missing persons and request permission to beam down additional personal to extend our search beyond the city limits."

Johnson shook his head. "The Ganzarites don't usually respond favorably to those sorts of requests."

"Well, at least we'll get to see how special this Special Intelligence man really is," Kirk said, rubbing his hands together. "Supposedly, he's been trained to deal with situations like this."

'Water, water everywhere,' Chekov thought as he scrubbed his reflection in the kitchen's tiled floor, 'but not a damned drop to drink.'

"You certainly aren't much of a worker," Sahshell commented. She sat at a long table in the middle of the large, bright kitchen cutting vegetables with a ingeniously designed slicer. She was assisted by two young boys - both natives, neither over twelve. Under her instructions, they were preparing what looked to be a large meal for a number of adults. For herself, Sahshell reserved the tasks that required a minimum of effort and an maximum opportunity to stare at Chekov.

"I'm sorry," he said, putting down the spiney sponge and sitting on a dry patch of floor. "However I am very tired and very..." His mind wouldn't supply him for a Ganzarite word for 'dehydrated' so he had to settle for, "..thirsty."

"No." He dipped the sponge back into the soapy bucket. "Tarell was right. I am an alien. A little of your water might make me very sick."

The two kitchen boys giggled and whispered to each over the boiling pots of stew they were tending.

"Call myself what? An alien?" Chekov was puzzled when the two boys burst into laughter again. "But that's what I am."

"Oh." Chekov turned back to his work, reflecting on the misfortune of being stranded on a planet so xenophobic the mere word "alien" was an obscenity.

"Don't get offended," Sahshell said. "It's just funny to hear someone talk that way and know they don't know what they're saying. And those two dummies will laugh at anything, won't you, boys?"

The boys giggled in reply. It sounded so much like an elder sister teasing her younger siblings, Chekov had to ask, "Are these your brothers?"

"In a way. They are brothers and they are mine." Sahshell smiled at them proudly. "Pretty, aren't they? I bought them with my inheritance money from Aunt Cilla when Tarell and I first came here to live. They were just toddlers. They're sons of one of the aunties. Not too bright, unfortunately, but they'll be marvellous to look at in a few years."

Swallowing his revulsion, Chekov strove to sound conversational as he asked, "Did you buy them from Auntie Foushe?"

"I was almost.. um.." It was a terribly peculiar way to speak of oneself. "I think I was almost ... purchased by her. Does she live near here?"

"No, it's a red house, but you can't see it from the street," she replied impatiently. "And you didn't see it coming here. It's in the other direction. And the Auntie wouldn't have bought you."

"I was mistaken, then." Chekov sloshed water onto the floor, happy with the amount of information he'd been able to procure so easily. "I know nothing of this place."

"She grows barbran," Sahshell's voice had taken on a suspicious tone. "She'd have nothing to do with a small one like you."

"Then they must have been talking about someone else," Chekov explained easily. "Tarell grows barbran also, doesn't she?"

"Oh." Chekov sat back on his heels and paused to think about this. Chustzi was a mold. It had many uses, but was quite dangerous to cultivate since it could develop into a blight that would attack all surrounding crops. Periods of blight and famine plagued this area before its development by slave-holding women. He'd never seen a farm devoted to chustzi cultivation, but this probably meant it was a smaller, more profitable operation than the typical barbran plantation. Servants probably worked in large scale versions of the greenhouses he'd seen in the city rather than out in huge fields. "It's used to make medicine, isn't it?"

She looked at him blankly for a moment. "Oh, yes, we grow that kind too. But mostly we raise sleeping chustzi to sell to the offworlders."

"To the offworlders?" Chekov asked, wondering what she meant by 'sleeping' and trying to imagine what the offworlders, who more and more were seeming to be Orions, would want with a primitive mold. "What would they do with it?"

"They use it against their enemies," she answered simply. "Don't you know? It's an offworldish thing..."

"No." He frowned and immediately resolved to find out more about this mold that could be used as a weapon. "I'm not that kind of an offworlder."

A low chime sounded. It was a long bell hung beside several others near the ceiling of the far wall. It was being activated by pulls on a string that passed through the wall. Guessing from the pull cords that hung nearby, he deduced this was some sort of a crude communications system.

"Chood," Sahshell called to one of her boys. "Go answer that." She turned and smiled at Chekov. "You'll have to learn the bells. That one's for the delivery door. It's probably the things for you."

"Oh." Chekov sincerely hoped that meant he'd soon have something to drink. "About this chustzi..."

"Toz," she ordered, sending the second boy after the first. "It's definitely your things if it's going to take both the boys to bring it in."

"No reason for you to worry about it," Sahshell cut him off. "You'll be working in the house, I think. And if not, you'll be told what you need to know when you need to know it."

Chekov felt strongly that he needed to know this now. However, he could see Sahshell had little patience for questions and her interest in agricultural matters was waning. He smiled what he hoped would seem a charming smile. "I am simply curious. I know very little about your planet."

"How sweet you are." The Ganzarite woman smiled as if she didn't quite believe his act, but enjoyed it all the same. "Well, sweet one, the main thing you need to know right now is that this isn't just my planet. From now on, it's your planet, too."

Despite his best efforts, Chekov's smile faded as he contemplated the potential correctness of her statement.

"It must be a trunk," Sahshell said, rising with an irritated sigh. She crossed to the doorway, then turned back to him with an ironic smile. "Behave yourself," she cautioned, as if daring him to do otherwise.

It quickly dawned on him that for the first time since his abduction, he was being left alone in a room with an open door. "Of course," he agreed amiably.

As her footsteps echoed down the hall, he had to press his hands to his temples to still the terrible pounding there. Thoughts of escape were paired with blinding spasms of pain in his head. 'How was I able to do this before?' he asked himself as he took in a few deep breaths and tried to clear his mind. It seemed like it had been something about Lieutenant Uhura...

As he pictured her, the pain in his head eased considerably. In fact, the more fondly he thought of her, the better he felt.

'It's Ghyka she wants,' he reminded himself as he rose and moved carefully towards the door. The thought saddened him unaccountably. He shook his head to clear it from such foolishness. 'What has happened to my mind?'

The door to the exterior was propped open just far enough for him to squeeze out. Despite the fact he knew he only had seconds before Sahshell returned, he hesitated. He knew they would have some way of tracking him. It was foolhardy to try to leave before he found out more about their capability to monitor his movements.

Beyond the door lay a dirt yard surrounded by a stone wall. There were a few scattered trees and a small hut-like structure that was probably a supply storage space. Separated from the rest of the yard by a barbran stalk fence were two long, squat buildings. He couldn't make them out clearly because of the trees and the fence, but believed they might be the greenhouses. That would be worth getting a look at.

He looked down at the recently abused palms of his hands. Maybe it wasn't worth going through that again. Until he knew more about their capabilities to track him, it would probably be better for him to be content to gather information and build their trust in him. Although resolved not to make an attempt, he remained at the door looking longingly at the blue Ganzarite sky. Only a short time ago he was sitting in the Rec room having lunch with Lieutenant Uhura and Kathy Hiroto. They were probably somewhere above him right now. To be back there with them would be paradise...

"Nothing," he assured her, hastily moving away from the door as the Ganzarite entered carrying a small white chest.

He obeyed, telling himself he had no choice, but knowing that he did so because he feared this woman -- illogically and uncontrollably. He couldn't meet her eyes as she placed the small chest inside one of the cabinets then stood watching him with her arms crossed. Under her gaze he began to feel almost sick with guilt, feeling worse with every passing second.

Sahshell, carrying only a light package tied with string, came in followed by the two boys staggering under the weight of a heavy chest.

"Oh, Tarell." Her sister sighed impatiently as she dropped her package carelessly onto the table. "It's not like he could have gotten far."

"That's not the point, though," she said as Sahshell crossed behind her and opened the big chest. "Is it?"

"I'm not your property, Tarell," the other woman reminded her, as she tossed a bottle to Chekov.

"No, you're not." Tarell crossed to him and snatched the liquid from his grasp.

Although he felt himself withering under her burning gaze, Chekov forced himself to straighten. "I wasn't going anywhere."

"No, you weren't. And you aren't going anywhere. But I told you not to even think of running away. Can you look at me and tell me you weren't thinking of running away?"

It didn't seem like much of a challenge at first. It would only be a very small lie to someone he didn't like very much. But Chekov quickly found he couldn't even meet Tarell's eyes without the headaches starting again.

"That's what I thought." The Ganzarite watched him rub his eyes between his thumb and forefinger with grim satisfaction. "How many did I give him last time?"

"Get him washed up and put into those new clothes, then send him to my study," she ordered ominously. "And remember, Sahshell, keep your hands off of him."

"And you..." Tarell took Chekov's hand from his eyes and wrapped it around the bottle of liquid nutrient. "Keep your strength up."

The woman in charge of the city's law enforcement organization looked at Kirk's fist as it landed on her desk. Then, almost involuntarily, her eyes fell to his body. She was an older woman, accustomed to dealing with male offworlders, but like the rest of the Ganzarite women, deeply indoctrinated into sexist perceptions. Kirk knew from prior experience on this planet she was probably thinking about how attractive or unattractive he was when he was angry.

He withdrew his fist and fumed silently. It seemed like every time he took an aggressive action to make them pay serious attention to him, the less seriously he was taken.

"We have procedures," the woman said, righting a small decorative container his blow had overturned. "If you hadn't tried to ignore those procedures, we would be twenty-four hours ahead of where we are now."

"I have personnel standing by on my ship," Kirk said, switching tactics. "If you recommend it to the council, I could double your workforce..."

"Captain..." She used the same sort of tone one would use if forced to call a monkey by that title. "You are not endearing yourself to me right now."

"Do you want a treaty between your government and ours?" she countered, knowing Kirk was aware of the considerable political influence she had over certain council members. "If so, then get your loud mouth and your ugly white face out of my office."

Kirk forced himself to swallow his temper. "Look, ma'am, all I want to do is..."

However the woman had already reached behind her and pulled the cord that signalled two of her assistants to enter.

"Kirk, if your men are lost or hurt, they'll be found and returned to you within the next forty-eight hours," she assured him as the assistants closed in to escort him out. "If anything else has happened to them, then... " A sardonic smile creased the woman's face. "Well, then you can rest assured they are being looked after most carefully."

"Quite sure." It had taken a bit of doing to convince Sahshell that he could be trusted to take a shower by himself. Chekov wasn't about to let all that effort go to waste just because he couldn't figure out how to put on these crazy Ganzarite garments. With all the mysterious sashes and slits, he didn't need help. He needed schematics.

"I can't believe you're so shy," she teased, her voice drifting though the wide crack of the slightly ajar door to the bath. "I'll see you naked sooner or later."

"Later would be better," he muttered to himself, putting his arm though what was either a very long sleeve or a pants leg. Deciding that this sleeve was a much better candidate for a pants leg than what he was currently wearing, he untied the long sash from around his waist and started over. The base garments he was struggling with were all white -- single pieces of material shaped by sashes cut into the cloth. If Sahshell hadn't taken them away while he was in the shower, he would have put back on the clothes he'd come in. At least there he could tell the shirt from the pants by their color.

The room itself was another fine example of Ganzarite architecture. The walls were woven in blue, white and green in a pattern that suggested fish in the ocean. The plumbing fixtures, however, were anything but native. They seemed to be of an old-fashioned Centauri design, probably bought by the Orions as surplus and unloaded on these primitives at great profit. Chekov reflected that for a supposedly virgin planet, Ganzar was exhibiting some sinfully cosmopolitan tastes in technology.

Although he had almost enough spare material left over to cover another person when he finished wrapping it around his waist, Chekov could tell from the superior fit that this piece of cloth was definitely the pants. He was dropping the shirt over his head when Sahshell entered.

Her mouth was open to make some remark, but looking at him she closed it into a smile... which turned into a giggle... which turned into a laugh.

Chekov spread his hands helplessly. "You mean to tell me this isn't right either?"

"Oh, yes, of course." He hastily pulled the garment off and turned it upside down. "I see it now. Thank you."

She shook her head as she took the material from him, folded it in half and turned it sideways. "Hold out your arms."

Chekov hoped he hadn't made a similar mistake with the pants as she slipped the material onto him like a jacket and wrapped the securing bands around his wrists. Even through the fabric, her touch tingled pleasantly against his skin.

"This.." Sahshell said, taking a tie from inside the shoulder of one sleeve and crossing his chest with it. "Is why I'd never buy an offworlder. You don't know how to do the simplest things, but you won't admit you need help."

Chekov smiled as she pulled up a high collar and wrapped a tie around it almost in the manner of a cravat. The casual contact from her felt so good it was making him feel a little light-headed. "I'm sorry. I thought I could figure it out."

"So I see." She smirked as she knelt and began to redo the fastenings on his pants legs. "Didn't you ever learn how to tie knots?"

"Not as well as you." The prospect of her hands working their way up his inseam became a little too much for him to handle. He reached down. "I'll do these myself."

She brushed his hands away with a light slap that stung cruelly despite its casual delivery. The unnaturally lingering pain temporarily counteracted the pleasure. She quickly finished with his pants, then rose and unfolded a long yellow piece of cloth.

"Can you read the printing on this?" she asked as she slipped it over his head. The overlay hung nearly to his knees. Stamped on the center of the chest in reddish ink was an elaborate symbol inside a circle.

Even upside down, Chekov could tell it was a letter from their alphabet, but the decorative curlicues made it difficult to recognize which one. "A 'B' or perhaps a 'T'?"

"It's Tarell's personal symbol," she informed him, tying a rust colored sash around his waist. "And these are our family colors."

She paused expectantly as if she anticipated some response from him. For some reason, though, he was having trouble thinking about anything other than what it would be like to have sex with her.

"Welcome to the family," she said wryly as she picked up a wide-toothed comb. She reached up to brush his hair, but this seemed to require more effort than she was willing to expend. "You're little, but you're not that little, are you? Here, sit down."

Chekov still had enough of his wits about him to realize prolonging the physical contact between them might not be as good an idea as it seemed right now. "Perhaps I should do this myself..."

"Sit!" She snapped her fingers and pointed at the stool as one would to command a family pet.

"You have such fine hair," Sahshell commented wonderingly as she raked the big comb through it. Ganzarites of this region had thick, coarse hair. "I've never seen anyone with hair like yours. It's so soft. I could just stand here and brush it all day."

Chekov hoped that she would. The contact with her hand as she smoothed his hair back was sending waves and waves of pure ecstasy down the length of his spine.

"Quit squirming!" She struck him lightly on the shoulder. "I'm not hurting you."

"No, you are not hurting me." Chekov came back to himself enough to pull away. "It's just that... that.." He could feel his face going a deeper red as he cast about for a polite way to tell her what she was doing to him.

Chekov cleared his throat and turned. He tried to look at her, but immediately found himself looking at body parts that weren't her face. "Tarell asked you not to touch me," he said looking safely at her feet.

"It's not about me, is it?" She devilishly reached out and twirled a damp curl at the nape of his neck around her finger. "It's about you."

"It's about responsiveness." She traced her fingertip down his neck and watched a shudder of pure delight pass through him in its wake. "The conditioning makes you all this way, but some men are more responsive than others."

"Sahshell..." he protested weakly, trying to recall who he was and the sorts of things he did not do with women he'd barely met.

"You seem to be exceptionally responsive," she observed, feeling his heart beating hard against her hand as she caressed his throat. "I should have known. The ones that feel the pain the most usually also feel the pleasure more too."

"God help me," he pleaded in his native tongue, his fingers digging into the seat of the stool as her hand slid down his chest.

Her hand stopped before it reached the destination his body was so eagerly anticipating.

"Tarell will be pleased," she said, coolly stepping back. "This means you'll be less capable of resistance and will adapt quicker."

A small part of him was aware that neither of these were anything for him to be pleased about, but the largest part of him was too busy basking in what definitely sounded like approval from her to take much note.

"Of course," she said, taking a grip on his shoulders and gently guiding him up into a standing position, "there are a few other benefits, too."

Chekov didn't realize that he retained his tight grasp on the seat of the stool and brought it with him as he stood. Nor did he did he have any spare attention to register the way it clattered to the floor when Sahshell pulled him forward into a deep kiss and his hands left it for her body. Nothing on this world or any other was as important at this moment as his desire for this woman.

Her push backwards this time was rougher and she followed it up with a slap to his face that hit him like a cold bucket of water. "Put those shoes on." Her voice was firm but not angry as she snapped and pointed to the floor.

He stepped back, rubbing his stinging cheek with the back of his hand. He felt hurt, puzzled, embarrassed and a little angry all at the same time.

"I said to put those shoes on," she repeated, more emphatically this time. "Obey me, now."

Although he was still confused and upset, it seemed best to comply with her wishes. He hoped as he knelt and picked up the shoes that complying with her strange request would prove a quick and easy way back into her good graces that he had so suddenly fallen out of.

The shoes were made of cloth with hard wooden soles. They made a jingling noise as he drew them on.

"They've got little bells inside the toes," Sahshell explained. "To help us keep up with you until you decide you'd like to stay with us."

Having completed the task she requested, Chekov stood up. He took a tentative step towards her.

"No," she warned, drawing her hand back threateningly. "We can't keep Tarell waiting and as you were just reminding me, I'm supposed to keep my hands off you. Now, come with me."

As the inflated input from his senses began to ebb, his mind slowly returned to its normal functions. He followed her out the door into the hallway feeling almost as foolish as he did disappointed. A rhythmic jingle-jingle from his shoes marked the timing of his steps.

"Irritating, isn't it?" Sahshell asked. "But the way things are going, you should be out of belled shoes by the end of next week... maybe much sooner."

Within fourteen days, Chekov translated, they anticipated him to be so fully acclimatized that he would have no desire to return to his former life. When he'd first heard about the men that never returned from Ganzar, he hadn't fully believed these primitives were in command of such powers of persuasion. Now, his own crumbling self-control was powerful evidence to the contrary.

"Sahshell," he said, thinking of the most recent demonstration of his lack of ability to govern his reactions, "I must apologize for..."

She waited for a moment, but when he seemed unable to name his crime, she shrugged. "You've just got to learn to do what I tell you to when I tell you to do it," she said, as if not immediately picking up the shoes had been the only thing he'd done wrong. The fact he'd suddenly been overcome with uncontrollable lust for her seemed to have completely escaped her attention.

"No," he said, almost choking on his own embarrassment. "I'm terribly sorry that I...I..."

As he sputtered to a halt, she looked at him as if she couldn't possibly figure out what strange, offworldish thing he could be going on about. "It's not me you need to worry about," she said, setting off down the corridor again. "I'd save my apologies for Tarell if I were you."

"Some offworlders aren't able to," she said, continuing on. "A lot of men don't like to cry at first, but tears can affect her greatly sometimes. Just don't over do it. The worst thing to do is argue with Tarell. She'll beat you just for arguing. The best thing to do is confess everything, say that you're sorry, promise never to do it again then beg for forgiveness... very humbly."

The dread in Chekov's stomach brought on by these words was only intensified when he realized that they had turned into the hallway that led to the door of his Ganzarite owner's study.

"Of course in your case, the very, very best thing to do," Sahshell said, smiling as they halted in front of an unpleasantly familiar doorway, "is to get her to touch you."

Before Chekov could put his appalled reaction to this suggestion into words, Sahshell knocked at the door, opened it and thrust him inside. "Good luck, sweet one."

He turned in time to see the untouchable metal latch click into place, effectively locking him inside this room where he very much did not want to be.

"Then come in." She was seated behind her large desk pulling a knotted string through one hand then stamping marks onto a piece of paper. Chekov recognized the string as a method of recording numbers. Tarell was probably doing her accounting. An apparently seldom used computer sat uncovered in a small alcove to the side. "Do you read knots?" she asked without looking up.

"No, I'm afraid not." He folded his hands behind him and idly wondered how those big windows opened.

"I may decide to teach you if you show an aptitude for it.. and prove yourself trustworthy."

He gradually realized that she was catching him look for a means of escape. He returned his gaze back to a more neutral direction as casually as was possible.

"Thank you." As much as he feared and disliked this woman, a thrill of pleasure still ran through him at receiving a word of praise from her.

She crossed to him then made a slow circle around him, examining him from every angle.

In a way, it was a familiar unpleasantness. Chekov had always hated military inspections. He tried to stare straight ahead and endure as he'd learned to in the Academy, but didn't succeed in achieving the necessary state of blankness. The potential of failing to pass muster and getting demerits was nothing next to the possibility of failing and getting physically abused.

She lifted one sleeve and fingered the intricately tied bands fastening it in place. "Sahshell helped you with these, didn't she?"

Chekov could feel his blush starting at his toes and working its way rapidly upwards. "Yes, ma'am," he replied, directing his answer towards the floor.

"She kissed me," he replied, glad that she given him the opportunity to state his confession in a way that did not directly implicate him.

She struck him lightly on the backside in a manner that was more demeaning than it was painful. "Don't kiss Sahshell," she warned. She didn't seem at all angry, though, or even annoyed. "I know how my sister is, but I hold you responsible for your own conduct... which could probably stand to be a little more modest. Don't smile at her so much or encourage her in any way. If I come in some day and find her with your..." Tarell suggested an unlikely sexual situation in terms so crude they were almost incomprehensible. The Ganzarites had a way of linguistically demeaning things that were uniquely male that was almost without equal in the galaxy. "... then it's you I'll blame."

Chekov was shocked speechless. He found himself in complete agreement with what the fat woman who had sold him to her had said; Tarell was certainly no lady.

He closed his mouth and nodded. He had definitely got the gist of her message. He might not agree with it and its ideological implications, or even believe that anyone would ever have a reason to say such a thing to him, but he had taken her meaning quite plainly.

"Good, now come over here." She crossed to the computer. "Can you operate this?"

"I believe so," he said confidently. The terminal was an old piece of refurbished junk. Obviously Andorian Science Corps surplus. The technology was at least seventy-five years out of date.

As he sat down in front of the terminal, he got the feeling that he was being tricked. Unfortunately, he didn't figure out what the trick was until he touched the activation button and spear of burning pain shot up his arm. "Ow!"

"Metal," Tarell explained belatedly as he put his stinging fingers in his mouth. "I guess you forgot about that."

"I didn't think of it being made of metal." Chekov tried shaking his fingers. "This means I cannot operate the input board either."

"No, I've had it coated with a special offworldish material." When she saw the puzzled look on his face, she cautioned, "Don't think about it too deeply. Just think of it as magic."

Chekov tested the keyboard gingerly. Without thinking about it too deeply, he could tell it was covered in a thin layer of rubbery material. However when he began to speculate on what this could mean about the nature of the thing that was scrambling the input from his sense of touch, the headaches started again.

"It is very difficult to control thoughts that occur to me spontaneously," he said, holding his head in his hands.

"No, it's not," she retorted unsympathetically. "You simply aren't used to disciplining your thoughts along our guidelines. In a very short time, your mind will learn to avoid thoughts that aren't safe. Once you cease to rebel, such thoughts won't even occur to you 'spontaneously'... As a matter of fact, I seem to remember that you're here to receive a little help in just that area."

"Tarell," he said as she crossed to her desk. "Do you intend to strike me again?"

The Ganzarite word had a meaning closer to 'slap' or 'punch', but it was the only term Chekov could think of for violent physical contact that did not carry connotations of deserved punishment.

"Oh, then yes." She pulled the same instrument of torture she'd used previously from beneath her desk. "I intend to 'strike' you quite soundly. Do you have anything to say about it?"

Bearing in mind Sahshell's advise, he rose and took a deep breath. "I... I admit to having had thoughts of leaving. However, I am... most regretful that I did so and ... request that you... overlook this particular instance."

"Because you did it very badly. You aren't sorry you were thinking about escaping. You don't even think you can control what you think. The only thing you're really sorry about is that you can't escape. You just don't want another beating."

It was impossible to deny the truth of any of this. "It is terribly painful," he said, hoping to play on any shred of human decency.

Not being human, she had none. "It's supposed to be painful, you idiot alien. I'm teaching you to avoid things."

"There must be another way, though," he said, fearing that he was coming perilously close to something that could be construed as arguing. "Surely it is not necessary to resort to violence."

"So what else?" She moved in towards him with a half-smile. "Would you like to... appease me? You're welcome to try."

This seemed to be an open invitation to commence with Sahshell's Plan B. Looking at Tarell, Chekov had no doubt that if he moved forward and into her arms, he would at least have to opportunity to delay his punishment for a while.

He laughed nervously as he inched backwards. "That's not exactly what I had in mind. I thought we could discuss the situation rationally and come up with a civilized solution that..."

"You know, offworlder..." Chekov knew that somewhere within those words he'd made a very big mistake as soon as Tarell stepped forward and grabbed a handful of the material of the right shoulder of his garment. "...That's what I don't like about you. You're always so civilized and polite. And although you're an ignorant piece of worthless alien refuse who I bought for less than I'd pay for a good load of manure, you seem to think you're better than I am, smarter than I am, more civilized than I am... just like all those other offworld, male-body-parts-for-brains, fornicating aliens who come here to do business with me thinking I'm going to fall down and kiss their reproductive organs."

"I..I.." Chekov tried to apologize, but in the face of her anger, it was hard to get his mouth to work correctly.

"So you want me to be rational, huh?" She shook him sharply. "Like these slope-headed, idiot-bearing, brother-fornicating Southern ladies here who get together at their planters' dinners and harvest committee meetings and rationally plan how to keep barbarians like me out of their little circle? Is that what you want? For me to be rational and civilized and polite?"

Backed up to the wall, Chekov's only avenue of escape was to squeeze his eyes closed and hope one of the three options would appeal to her.

"Well, I might be a Northern barbarian," she said from between her teeth. "But I'm the Northern barbarian that owns you, laddie. And although I can't do anything to all those smart-assed offworld business men and all those self-satisfied Southern ladies, I can most certainly do this to you..."

She grabbed him by the collar and steered him over in front of the computer terminal. Forcing his head forward, she bent him over and held him in place with a firm hand to the small of his back.

It seemed a crowning irony to him that his nose was just inches away from the keyboard of a computer -- a virtual symbol of the current state of advancement of the civilization he came from -- while he was about to receive treatment that an adult man from the Dark Ages would find singularly unrefined...

It also occurred to him that if Tarell kept her hand on his back like that much longer, he might be willing to give Plan B another shot...

Just when he was beginning to think that he was having a terribly long time to think of such things, Tarell pulled him back up to standing.

"But I won't do that to you," she said, turning him around to face her and jerking his right hand forward. "Because even though I might not like your offworldish niceness, I'm going to use it. I'm going to learn to deal with it..."

He couldn't help but cry out at the terrible impact of the second blow and struggle futilely to pull away.

"...accomplishing what I intend to do..." she continued, jerking him back into place and bringing the stick down again. "...calmly and, as you say..."

As the stick landed again, Chekov was really beginning to hate the Ganzarite's fondness for long compound sentences.

"...rationally." After one last excruciating blow, she released him. "Now, do you think that if I tell you not to think about running away you can do it?"

Chekov opened his mouth out of a strange compulsion to obey her, but couldn't give an appropriate answer. To say yes would be an outright lie and saying no would doubtlessly inspire a continuation of Tarell's tutorial.

"When you mistreat me this way," he said, deciding to be honest reguardless of the consequences, "it is difficult not to think that it would be much pleasanter to be elsewhere."

"I'm not mistreating you!" She grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. "I'm being very patient and understanding! Don't you understand?"

Chekov remained silent and let the physical evidence to the contrary speak for itself.

Tarell released him abruptly. "Go sit down," she said pointing to a group of chairs on the opposite side of the room.

Glad to put some distance between the two of them, he crossed to the chairs. As he did so, he noticed for the first time a covered tray sitting on a low table beside one of the chairs.

"On the floor, you idiot," Tarell corrected irritably as he started to take one of the chairs.

Chekov was getting very tired of being called an idiot by this woman -- this alien, as he was beginning to rudely think of her, but prudently refrained from saying so as he seated himself cross-legged on the tiles.

Frowning, Tarell sat down in the chair by the low table. She uncovered the tray, revealing a small bowl of white cubes of gelatinous material. "Come here," she ordered, holding one out for him.

Chekov remained stubbornly motionless. "I'm not particularly hungry just at this moment."

Tarell's eyes narrowed dangerously. Setting her mouth in a hard firm line, she reached out, grabbed a handful of his hair and dragged him forward. She forced his mouth open, shoved the cube inside, and then held a hand over his mouth and nose until he'd swallowed it. "How was that?"

Chekov recognized the cube as oloiv, an Aldebaran dish with a long shelf life that was as high in nutrients as it was low in taste. "Delicious," he replied dryly.

Faced with the unpleasant alternative, he opened his mouth and unresistingly allowed her to feed him the next one...and the next one... and the next one... and the next one.

"Get up on your knees," Tarell said, tiring of reaching down. "You can put your hand on my leg to balance."

Chekov did as she asked, but grasped the leg of the chair to steady himself instead.

Tarell looked at his hand critically as she fed him the next cube. "You're going to have to touch me sooner or later, you know."

Chekov concentrated on forcing another mouthful of the bland substance down his tight throat and made no reply.

She took his hand and placed it on her thigh. "See," she said, rubbing his hand back and forth against the thin material of her garment. "It feels good, doesn't it?"

Feeling a irrepressible heat rising within him, he cleared his throat and tried to pull away.

The Ganzarite laughed at the ineffectiveness of his half-hearted gesture. "Come on, my little alien," she said, smiling as she put his other hand on her shoulder. "Learn how to take a privilege when it's offered to you."

He tried to make his mind blank, but something was filling it with images of compelling sensuality.

"Let's see just how much of an act all your fornicating properness is," she said, pulling up her garment and placing his hand against the bare flesh of her leg.

"I'm sorry," he said, shocked by his forwardness, surprised by his powerful desire for this woman he thoroughly detested and horrified by his inability to stop fondling her. "I seem to be losing control..."

"Oh, control is very important, offworlder," Tarell said, gently pushing him down and onto his back. She smiled as she easily moved on top of him and began to unfasten his clothes. "Let me teach you a little something about control..."

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