Ganzar Chapter five

Kirk was sure he hadn't heard correctly. In his opinion, they'd reached and passed the point of no turning back. "What?" he asked breathlessly.

"Just stop." Dusach pushed him off her. She was a councilwoman -- not necessarily one of the most politically powerful, but one of the youngest and most attractive.

"What's the matter?" Kirk gasped as he lay down beside her. She had been polite enough to invite him to her bedchamber, but had like Dargion, the chair of the council, insisted that the room be darkened.

"I just don't like this," she said bluntly, pulling her inner layer of robe over her. "Are you sure you did this with Dargion?"

"Yes," Kirk replied shortly. He'd never meet a race of women with less respect for the male ego. They didn't even pretend to enjoy sex.

"You've just got to give it a chance," Kirk said as she rose and continued to dress.

"I have and I don't like it," she replied, matter-of-factly tossing him his pants. "I'll admit there was a thrill of the forbidden at first, but I find having someone on top of me uncomfortable and threatening. I just can't relax."

"Well, I'm sorry." Kirk cast about for some way to salvage the situation. "Listen, are you sure there's nothing more you can tell me about my men?"

"I've heard a rumor that at least one of them is being held in a location south of here," Kirk said, pulling a direction out of thin air.

"Don't worry." The woman reached down and patted his face patronizingly. "If he's as bad in bed as you, they'll send him back."

"Sorry." Chekov turned the page of the manual for the Vegan mediscan that he'd been staring at for the past fifteen minutes. After lunch, Tarell had gone back to wrestling with her accounts. She'd ordered him to sit on the floor near her desk where she could keep an eye on him while she worked. He propped the book up on his knees and rested his shoulders against the back wall -- probably inches from the very spot where the security system was. It could have been a million miles away for all he could do about it...

"A person would think from the way you take on that you'd never gotten a beating before in your life," Tarell grumbled, marking down a sum on a clay tablet.

"I hadn't," Chekov answered, keeping his eyes on the page, "before I came here."

"I'm not," he said, making a strong attempt to sound merely factual -- not letting any of the other more terrible things he was feeling creep into his voice.

She put down her marking stick. "Then how did your mother get you to do things when you were a child?"

It seemed almost obscene for Tarell to ask him such a thing. Even if he couldn't keep her out of his present, his past at least should be inviolate.

"She told me what wished for me to do," he answered, deciding after a moment that it might serve as a good example for the Ganzarite.

"All I'll say," she said, shaking a warning finger at him, "is that I'm treating you very gently compared to how I could treat you."

Chekov turned the page he hadn't been reading. "I am simply not accustomed to such treatment at all."

"It's completely irrelevant what you're fornicating accustomed to," Tarell replied sharply. "What matters is if I think you merit such treatment. And if I don't see a quick improvement in your attitude you're going to merit some more real soon. Understand?"

Chekov sighed. Something about doing her accounts seemed to put Tarell into a ill-temper. In the future, he made a mental note not to talk to her at all while she was doing them. "Yes, m.."

"And don't call me 'ma'am'," she interrupted. "It sounds so fornicating pretentious that it makes me want to vomit."

"Why not just say, 'Yes, Tarell,' in a nice, respectful tone of voice... like everyone else does," she suggested acidly.

"Why don't you..." Chekov stopped and reconsidered his phrasing before continuing. "What I mean to say is that it seems that it would be... less unpleasant if you informed me of such things in advance rather than becoming angry when I make mistakes..."

"I'm not suppose to have to tell you anything, you fornicating idiot," she said, exasperated. "You're supposed to learn to anticipate what I want you to do and what might irritate me."

"Ex-actly!" Tarell nodded. "See, here's the root of our problem. You're determined to stay self-willed. You think that becoming completely responsive to your owner's desires would be a terrible thing."

Tarell had to ponder a minute before she could come up with her culture's pat rationalization for this. "I'm a landowner and a farmer," she said, a tone of condescension entering her voice. "I try to be the very best landowner and farmer that I can be. If I were a servant, I'm sure I would try to be the best servant I could be. Since you're my servant now and there isn't anything you can do to change that fate, don't you want to try be an excellent servant?"

"No, you're not." Tarell took up her marking stick again. "So shut up and read that manual.... And I do mean read it. Don't just turn the pages every so often like you have been doing."

He couldn't do the same. Merely being in the same room with her made it impossible to concentrate. Although part of him would have preferred to be a billion miles away from her, he was intensely aware of her every move. Although a part of him detested her, he found himself anxiously evaluating her mood. He couldn't have read the book if he wanted to.

"All right." Tarell laid her marker down after a moment. "Come here... And don't look at me like I'm about to hit you."

"Get over here," she ordered impatiently as she closed her book and took a few small items out of her desk. "Stand on my right. Angle yourself in so you can reach anything on the desk easily with your right hand."

"But I am," Tarell said as she lined the objects up on the desk in front of her. "It doesn't matter what you think you are. Just do as I tell you... Since you're not interested in that manual, let me see if I can't teach you a little about how to be a good servant..."

Chekov grimaced as he took his place beside her. Previous lessons about being a good servant had all seemed to involve getting hit.

"All right." Tarell put her hands in her lap. "As I raise my hand, give me the object I want."

Tarell shook her head. "What do you think I want you to do?" she asked as if she expected him to know the answer.

The Ganzarite turned in her seat and frowned at him. "You drive me half-crazy being such a smartass all the time, then you expect me to buy it when you play dumb like this?"

Chekov could feel himself blushing as he looked away, realizing that he was playing dumb. He knew exactly what she wanted him to do. "You wish me to attempt to anticipate what you will reach for."

He watched as her hand rose to the level of the desk. He tentatively moved his hand at the same speed, watching for any minute indications of where she was heading.

"Tarell," he said, drawing his hand back suddenly. "If I guess incorrectly... are you going to strike me?"

"I'm going to smack the fornication out of you if you don't stop asking stupid questions," she snapped. The Ganzarite then closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "No," she answered in a forced, but much calmer tone. "I am not going to hit you... unless it looks like you're not trying... All right?"

She was moving so slowly it was fairly easy to tell that her hand was heading towards the little glass bottle half-filled with blue liquid.

"Good," she said, as he dropped it into her hand. A small thrill of pleasure passed through him. "Let's try again."

Although she moved a little faster this time, his hand still got to the carved wooden cube before hers did. "Very good." She patted his hand approvingly before pushing it away. "But this time put your hand back by your side until I start to move. You can't just stand there waving your hand around until I decide to reach for something."

"All right," he replied, experimentally using the same slang term she habitually used for the affirmative.

He couldn't help but return her smile, knowing that he was going to guess correctly again.

Even as she got faster, it wasn't really difficult anticipate her. There were always readable indications in the movement of the small muscles in her hand. Even the tilt of her head gave strong clues. He was even able to effortlessly stay seconds ahead of her when she reached for a receipt written on a small piece of paper instead of one of the objects they'd been working with.

Chekov almost giggled with pleasure. It felt so terribly good for her to be pleased with him for a change. He could now see why Ushan's servant had been so remarkably efficient... The thought of Ushan's nearly invisible man froze his hand mid-motion.

When Tarell's hand hit the small bottle without his, she looked up. "What's the matter?" she asked, her smile fading. "Have you decided to stop trying?"

Chekov pressed his hand to his chest. If he stopped playing her little game, she would hit him again. But if he kept on, he might never be able to quit. The temporary pain of Tarell's displeasure seemed to be preferable in the long run to the addictive pleasure of her approval. "I don't want to be like Ushan's servant," he said slowly, trying to steel himself against what was to come.

After a moment, Chekov found he couldn't meet her eyes. Although he knew he should be proud of himself for standing up to her, he was so ashamed of displeasing her, he wanted to die.

"You're not anything like Ushan's servant," she said at length. "That is, unless my mother mated with some white man I never knew about..."

Chekov struggled not to smile. He couldn't tell if his sudden levity was because he found her joke -- with its racist overtones -- funny, or if he was just relieved she wasn't angry with him.

"Why don't you laugh?" Tarell asked, propping her right arm up on the back of her chair. Because of his proximity, her arm went part-way around him without touching him. "I've not heard you laugh. You have a pleasant sounding voice. I'm sure you'd have a pleasant sounding laugh.... uh, now what was it that I named you?"

A dangerous smile crept across Tarell's face. "Am I going to have to jog your memory?" she asked, grasping the sash around his waist from behind.

"Tavic," he replied quickly from between clenched teeth. "I think it was Tavic."

"And why would I call you that?" she asked as playfully as a little boy pulling the wings off a fly.

"Because of the color of my eyes," he answered, almost running the words together.

"Because," he said deliberately, fixing his gaze on the part of the wall that must be in front of the security system, "of the color of my... pretty brown eyes."

Tarell smiled. "It pleases me so much that I have finally found a punishment you dislike enough to make an effort to avoid."

"You might be brave enough to defy me," she continued, "But you're not brave enough to stand the humiliation of being put over my knee again, are you?"

She laughed as she released him. "You know, offworlder, I find it more amusing to own you than I ever thought that I would."

"Because I enjoy winning," she corrected without rancor. She reached out and brushed his hair away from his face. "I can see that you're giving up. You only pretend to resist me now."

She let her hand travel slowly down his cheek. "Let me win, offworlder. I can guarantee I'll make you enjoy it even more than you enjoy fighting me."

He wondered, among other things, why she'd given him a name if she never intended to call him by it. It was much easier to think about that than about the fact that she was right, he was beginning to cave in. She had more experience at being owner and dominator of other people than he had at being a slave. She'd already hit upon a punishment he'd go to lengths to avoid. It was only a matter of time until she found a form of pleasure he'd long to repeat.

She picked up the small piece of paper and put it back into the stack of accounts receivable. "Why do you want to know?"

"Of course they do. We call it going dormant now, but in the old days they would say the plant sleeps."

"Oh, yes, of course." The ensign nodded. "But I still don't understand why the Ori-- why the Offworlders would wish to purchase great quantities of it?"

Tarell placed the small objects they'd been working with back in their proper places. "It's none of your concern anymore."

"Sahshell said it was to use against their enemies..." Chekov remembered. "I suppose a blight-carrying plant with a long dormancy period could be used in environmental sabotage, but Federation agricultural experts could easily detect its presence."

"Maybe they only use it against stupid offworlders," Tarell suggested disinterestedly.

"The Orions do have rivals other than the Federation," Chekov said, thinking aloud. "Who would be vulnerable to such tactics?"

"I've got to go get today's tally before I can finish this," she said, rising. "Come on. You'll go with me. You've not seen the inside of the barns yet, have you?"

Chekov's heart suddenly skipped a beat. Here at long last was his opportunity to be alone in this room. "I'd rather stay here, if I may?" he asked meekly.

Tarell laughed and put her hands on her hips. "What's the matter? You afraid of running into Tirst?"

"He does not wish me well," he replied, hoping she'd continue to mistake his excitement for terror. "Neither does your sister."

"Don't worry about either of them," the Ganzarite reassured him. "I'm not going to let happen to you what happened to the last one."

"The last one?" he repeated, a little real concern entering his voice. "What exactly happened to the last one?"

"If I could stay here..." he pressed, trying to look as timid as she thought he was.

"Oh, all right," she relented, gathering up her counting strings. "It'll be faster if I go by myself. Read that manual and don't get into any trouble. I'll be back in a very short time."

He sat down at his former place with his back against the back wall and opened the book to a random point. Satisfied with this, Tarell headed for the door. Chekov forced himself not to move as soon as it clicked behind her. After wasting a few precious seconds on the possibility that she might come back for something she'd forgotten, the ensign carefully placed the open book on the floor where it could be quickly retrieved. Getting up on his knees, he turned and began to feel for a hidden latch. Unlike the room's other walls, the section behind the alcove that contained Tarell's desk was made of wood -- actually strips of barbran stalk. His hand finally hit on a loose piece of decorative molding. It was attached to a string that when pulled forward raised a small section of panelling. In the hidden recess gleamed the red and green lights of a cheap, obviously second-hand, Andorian scan unit.

"I don't believe it," Chekov said, sitting back on his heels. He'd somehow expected something more elaborate, more imposing, but it was quite appropriate that he was being held captive with the aid of a simple device Andorian farmers used to keep track of their herd beasts. Apparently the Ganzarites had planted a tag readable by this machine on him somewhere. If he could find the tag, then he wouldn't have to worry about the scanner at all.

"Probably internal," he decided after a moment's contemplation. After all, Tarell had shown no particular concern that any item of clothing they'd given him remained on him at all times.

Chekov closed the hatch hiding the scanner. Keeping one eye and ear on the door, he moved to Tarell's desk cursing the loud jingle of the bells in his shoes. A four digit security code had to be entered before he could access the scanner's controls. He was betting that the code and a piece of wood that would allow him to operate the metal-plated machine could be found somewhere on her desk.

The code was not written inside the front of her ledger as he thought it would be. In fact, it wasn't written in any of the obvious places he looked. As Chekov opened drawer after unlocked drawer, he began to get nervous. Not only was his time beginning to run out, but he'd learned from his few experiences with petty theft that one's likelihood of being discovered increased with the number of items one touched. One slightly out of place nick-nack could be enough to alert a suspicious mind like Tarell's.

"Other men have tried to do this," he told himself as he continued to search. "She's put the code somewhere she thinks they would not look."

At that moment, he opened the drawer where she kept her various instruments of torture. He quickly re-closed it, only glancing at its contents. After doing so, an idea occurred to him. It was a sadistic idea -- but then again, Tarell was nothing if not a sadist.

Taking in a deep breath, he reopened the drawer and forced himself to take out the most hideous of all the hideous items therein -- the long black quirt. From its handgrip dangled a cord. On that cord was a line of four small knots.

Out of one of the upper drawers, he took a long wooden hairpin then returned to the wall. Chekov could feel the beginnings of a terrible headache stirring inside his skull as he opened the secret compartment again. He was surprised that the conditioning had let him get this far without warning pains. The trick must be, he thought punching in the access code with the blunt end of the long hairpin, to keep one's mind on what one was doing rather than on the implications of what one was doing.

Reasoning that there was a better chance of his tampering being detected sooner if he simply turned off the machine, he requested a list of subjects. Guessing that he was the last item on the list of surveillance targets, he deleted the final entry. A dot separated from most of the others on scanner's small screen disappeared.

"One less herd beast to worry about," the ensign comforted the machine as he returned it to normal functioning with a last tap from the hairpin and closed the cover of its secret chamber.

He thought of taking off his shoes as he jingle-jangled his way back to the desk to return the hairpin. All that got him was a sharp pain right above his left eye.

'Oh, no,' he thought, dropping the hairpin back into its niche. 'If I can't even think of taking off these shoes, then how am I going to plan my...'

Whatever it was that was monitoring his thoughts, gave him a jolt so strong it stopped him in his tracks momentarily. It was if it were trying to make up for its lack of action while he disarmed with the security system.

Thinking about this while he weakly returned to his original position seated against the back wall, Chekov decided that the conditioning hadn't interfered with him looking for and manipulating the security system because Tarell had never actually forbidden him from doing so. On the other hand, she'd made herself quite clear about she felt about his contemplating....

"Uuuh." Chekov groaned as another blinding burst of pain shot through his head. He picked up the mediscan manual and willed himself not to panic. There had to be a way around the conditioning. He'd been able to think of... being elsewhere before...

"Yes," he said aloud. Doing so seemed to make it easier to focus his thoughts. "I was thinking of Lt. Uhura... of her orders that I must see that nothing happens to Commander Ghyka. If I... go elsewhere, it will be to fulfil my duty to her."

Whatever it was that was in charge of giving him pain was confused by this. Chekov concentrating on conjuring up a vivid mental picture of the lieutenant. When he tried projecting how pleased the communications officer would be when he returned with Ghyka at his side, the intruder in his brain was duped enough to send a tingling wave of pleasure down his spine.

"Oh, my." Chekov had to pause a moment to catch his breath. The pleasure he received from merely imagining how he could please someone he truly liked and respected was at least equal to the sort of sensation he involuntarily felt when Tarell touched him. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to be physically intimate with someone he was actually attracted to. Then again... he realized that he actually could imagine....

"Oh, my God," Chekov breathed, as his conditioning lavishly rewarded him for a fond memory of an ex-girlfriend. A man with a reasonable command of his cognitive powers could lead quite a happy life completely on his own on this planet. Perhaps that's why they were all so quiet... If Tarell had been the least bit kind or devastatingly attractive, he knew that by now he'd not be able to....

"...Think about following my orders from Lt. Uhura," Chekov corrected himself quickly. He couldn't.... go find Commander Ghyka -- as would so please the lieutenant -- right now. Tarell would be back any moment. In order to maximize the advantage he'd gained by deleting himself from the surveillance field, he needed a good head start before he was discovered missing. The scanner had a range of several miles. If it were turned on while he was still in scanning range....

"...Then Lt. Uhura would not be pleased," Chekov concluded -- safely he thought -- but kibitzing presence inside his head punished him with a wave of depression. Unlike sensations of pain or pleasure, the ensign could not distinguish this from his own natural responses. He sighed deeply. "This is going to be terribly difficult."

As if to make things even more difficult, Tarell re-entered the room. He couldn't stop himself from looking up at her guiltily.

The Ganzarite put her hands on her hips and frowned. "Don't look at me that way," she ordered irritably. "A person would think a four-headed horned beast had just walked in."

"Come here." She beckoned him forward as she strode to the middle of the room. "And bring that book."

The ensign complied cautiously, carefully schooling his thoughts. Just one unexplained spasm of pain would betray him.

"No, ma'am." Chekov focused his eyes humbly on the floor and folded his hands behind his back. "I am afraid not."

Tarell rapped him lightly on the head with the book. "I thought I told you not to call me 'ma'am'."

"Don't forget again." The Ganzarite paced a slow circle around him, thumbing through the pages. "All right. How do you interface this unit with a Model Five diagnostic table?"

"Uh... uh.." Chekov frowned. Although he'd read very little of the manual, he'd assumed he'd be able to fake a passing knowledge of the mediscan's operations. "I do not think that I have read that far yet."

"It's on the third page, you little liar," she admonished, holding the book up in front of his face.

"Yes, but this is only a summary of subject matter to be covered in the book," the ensign pointed out. "You see, interfacing is covered in Chapter Ten. I have only read as far as Chapter...ah, Three."

The Ganzarite eyed him narrowly over the top of the book. "I think you'd better start reading a little faster. I'm sure you're able to, aren't you?"

"Oh?" Tarell smiled her awful smile. "Do you need some added incentive to make you try harder?"

"No, ma'am," the ensign answered quickly, fastening his eyes on the tops of his shoes. "I will simply make greater efforts to focus in the future."

"All right." She resumed her pacing. "What does a reading above 4.99 on the fifth dial from the right indicate?"

"Unacceptable levels of.. umm... radiation exposure?" Chekov guessed. If only there were some way he could contrive to be alone for a few hours... Then again, he'd already had to wait all day for the chance to be alone for what couldn't have been much more than ten minutes.

His answer must have at least been close because Tarell's only response was to turn the page. "What does a reading of over 40 on the second indicator mean?"

"Uh...." He squinted as he tried to remember the layout of the mediscan. "Oh, yes. That would indicate that I'm running a high fever."

"That would depend on the other readings..." A bad idea occurred to Chekov. There was one place and time when she consistently left him alone... "..and other external indications you may have of the cause of the fever. There is a chart..."

He studied the wood grain on the floor as he listened to the sound of her footsteps and the rustle of more pages being turned.

'Exhausted, disoriented, unmotivated to do anything that might displease her,' he reminded himself silently, 'in a room on the second story, wearing nothing... No, it doesn't seem likely under such circumstances that I would attempt to...'

"If you act quickly enough under the correct circumstances, you might revive me." Another bad thought occurred to the ensign. The combination of the primitive living conditions of this planet, his body's lack of tolerance for its various diseases, his owner's unfamiliarity with medical procedures, and the strain put on his metabolism by all the medication she was feeding him didn't promise a particularly long future for him on Ganzar. "Tarell, how long do you expect me to live?"

"Oh..." She paused to consider. "You seem to be young still. You'll last at least another forty or fifty seasons."

Forty or fifty seasons on Ganzar only translated into about twenty to twenty-five Earth years. Staying on this planet meant cutting his life expectancy nearly in half. He'd be an old man at forty-five and probably dead by fifty. "Tarell..."

"I was wondering if you would like to..." Chekov suddenly lost his nerve mid-utterance.

He swallowed hard and avoided her eyes. "I'm afraid I was about to make an improper suggestion."

"You make an improper suggestion?" She laughed. "Go on, offworlder. I'd like to hear your idea of an improper suggestion."

"To... to..." He couldn't stop himself from blushing furiously. Good idea or bad, it would seem he was committed to going through with it now. "...to go upstairs."

"Uh..." Tarell used so many vulgar terms for having sex is was hard to think of an inoffensive one. "And... do ...what we usually do," he finished awkwardly.

He closed his eyes and nodded. She sounded amused in that way that always seemed to spell trouble for him.

He cleared his throat. "I was unsure if you would consider it within my prerogative to make such a suggestion."

"I'm not in favor of you making any suggestions to me about anything," Tarell replied, laying the manual aside. "But you can ask me if I'd like to do it."

"You see, it's just not the way I feel about you," she said, mocking his earlier words. "I feel the base of our kinship is just too unreal."

She folded her arms triumphantly. "So how does it feel to be the one being rejected for a change?"

She stepped back to enjoy the full length view of his suffering. "You see, this is what you've been doing that's improper. You have no right to reject me. It makes me feel bad... Probably not as bad as you feel right now, but I still don't like it."

He doubted that there was anything short of killing one of her close friends that he could do to make her feel as badly as he was feeling just then.

"All right." She indicated with a jerk of her head he was to follow as she walked over and opened the door. "Come on."

He could tell from her smug expression as she held the door open for him that this wasn't over. She had him where she wanted him and wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to engage in her favorite pastime -- teaching the know-it-all offworlder a lesson. He reproached himself as he followed her up the stairs for being stupid enough to try such a thing. After all, making a sexual advance on a woman was a risky business under the best circumstances. Even the average non-Ganzarite woman was well equipped to inflict incredible misery under such circumstances. Tarell, he knew, was going to make him pay for every unkind or unenthusiastic thing he'd ever said to her in ways too cruel to imagine.

'Who needs to imagine?' he thought to himself as she opened the door to her room and motioned him inward. 'I will be living them in a moment.'

He followed her pointing finger to the bed wishing he'd taken a moment to consider before he'd spoken.

"You're getting undressed?" she asked as he automatically began to unfasten the shoulder seams of his shirt.

"No, ma'am," he replied, sitting down on the edge of the bed and folding his hands in his lap. What could he have been thinking of? Of course there was going to be a lecture first.

"Tarell," he corrected himself, looking at his thumbs. He would have never predicted that under such circumstances he would prefer to call her by a deferential title. Doing so seemed to lend a comforting psychological distance. Calling her by her first name made it seem as though the two of them were friends.

She crossed to him and lifted his chin. "You haven't changed your mind, have you?"

The ensign nodded -- even though there were several other things that he felt even worse about. Being there at all, for instance.

"You don't deserve to feel good," she said, withdrawing her hand. "For a person who prides himself on being civilized and polite, you've been very ill-behaved and inconsiderate of my feelings."

He would have liked to have argued or at least ignored her, but each word sunk him ever lower into a state of despondency.

"If I have sex with you now, it would be as though I am rewarding you for making this half-hearted offer." As he feared, she seemed to be working herself up towards anger. "You don't deserve to be rewarded for realizing that you actually want to do something that you should be eager and grateful for the chance to do. Tirst was begging me to have sex with him when I saw him just a few minutes ago. Other men I own only dream that I might one day so favor them. But you -- ugly, undeserving, impudent thing that you are -- act like having sex with me is some kind of horrible chore."

Chekov put his repulsively white-skinned hands behind his back and stared at the floor instead.

"As of now that attitude stops," she said sharply. "Do you understand me? You're going to have to do much, much better than this or, my fine little offworlder, you're going to pay the consequences.... And that's the next thing we're going to work on -- this attitude that you never deserve to be punished for anything. As long as you act like a spoiled child, you'll be treated like a child. It's about time you accept your responsibilities as a man. And your prime responsibility is to make me happy. Do you understand? Look at me when I speak to you."

"Yes, Tarell," he answered, but his voice came out as a cracked whisper and he could only force his eyes up to the level of her waist.

"Perhaps in the Offworld, men are encouraged to disregard, deceive and manipulate women -- like you constantly attempt to do. But here it is unacceptable. Do you understand?"

The ensign nodded. He was still looking at her as he'd been instructed to, but his eyes had fallen down to the level of her ankles.

Tarell crossed her arms. "I don't think I can stand to be in the same room with you, let alone have sex with you."

He would have thought that there were some limits to how badly she could make him feel by rejecting him. It surprised him that they hadn't hit that point yet.

"I have work to finish," she informed him coldly. "And since I don't want to be around you, you will stay here. You can take a shower or take a nap or just sit there and sulk until I come back, but I suggest when I do come back you be prepared to demonstrate a proper attitude and apologize to me for your insulting behavior. If you don't..."

He thought she intended just to let her threat hang in the air, but she jerked his head up by the chin. "You know what will happen, don't you?"

She brought her face close to his. "Something very un-fornicating-pleasant," she said through her teeth before pushing him roughly away.

The hard soles of her shoes beat a loud tattoo on the floor. The ensign flinched away from the sound of the door slamming behind her as he would from a blow. He could see and hear her withdraw the cord that would have allowed him to open the door from this side. He was locked in. Her footsteps banged down the stairs.

He tried to comfort himself by telling himself that she'd only said the things she had for the effect she knew the words and her tone of voice would have on him. She'd intended to intimidate him and coerce him into behaving as she wished. Unfortunately, knowing that didn't make him feel any less intimidated or persuaded to behave as she wanted.

"I.. I... h-h-ha...." The conditioning wouldn't let him use the word "hate" even when he was alone. "I don't like you, Tarell," he said to the door instead. "I don't like you at all. Nothing you said about me was the truth."

He banged his fist against his leg to keep himself from dissolving into foolish tears. "I don't habitually lie to women," he insisted to an absent audience, "or try to manipulate them... although I have tried to do both to Tarell. But that's not because she's a woman, not because I feel myself to be superior to her. I simply want to...."

A blinding headache reminded him that he couldn't think directly about what he wanted to do. Rubbing his temples, he got up and walked to the small green reflecting glass mounted on the wall.

"And I am not..." He meant to say "ugly", but the reflection that stared back at him took him by surprise. It had sickly-looking pale skin and stringy short hair. It was swathed in layers of clothing that would have looked graceful on a larger man. The back of the hand that it put over its misshapen mouth and half of its too wide jaw was covered with garish-looking black hair. Only its eyes, under thick, unattractive eyebrows, looked like a Ganzarite's.

Not knowing what he was going to do, he slid a box out from under the upright chest that contained Tarell's garments. In this box were the three other changes of outfit she'd bought for him. Either going out the window or taking a shower necessitated a change of clothes.

"Lt. Uhura does not find my behavior unacceptable," he consoled himself as he sat down in front of the box and untied his belled shoes. "And she would never let a person's appearance prejudice her against them."

He paused. He'd come to a point where he had to make a decision. If he was staying, he'd be putting on another fancy white outfit. If he was leaving, the plainer clothes he'd been sold in would probably be more sensible.

"I think that Lt. Uhura would like me to wear these," he said to himself aloud, picking up the simple shirt and brown pants. "Green is one of her favorite colors."

Although Tarell had never forbidden from wearing those clothes, there were uneasy stirrings from the back of his neck. To quiet them, Chekov summoned all the happy memories of Uhura that he could. He found himself smiling as he remembered her singing and laughing at a recent birthday party.

He still wasn't expert enough to unfasten all the knots that Tarell had tied earlier, but managed to slacken enough of them to allow him to extricate himself from the silken clutches of the garment. He fastened the more elementary closures of the green shirt and brown pants with the number three knot that Tarell had taught him.

"Lt. Uhura would like this knot best," he defended himself as he tied down the front placket. "It is very neat and effective."

And not, he noted as he took a step forward, quiet as secure as the combination of more complicated knots a Ganzarite would use. Assuring himself that Lt. Uhura would like these even better, he re-tied a few of the most strategic knots in familiar, reliable patterns he'd learned as a boy on his and the communications officer's shared home world. This done, he looked at his bare feet. They would have to stay that way. No shoes would be less conspicuous than belled shoes.

"As if a short, white-skinned alien has any hope of being inconspicuous at all," he said ruefully.

The nagging pain in his head resumed in force when he looked at the room's two windows.

"I must go find Commander Ghyka," he reminded his internal discomfort factory. "Lt. Uhura would be so pleased with me if I would climb out that window."

Using a wooden hairpin from Tarell's dresser, Chekov disengaged the simple metal latch on the inside of one of the windows. Putting his fingers gingerly on the glass, he pushed it open. Beyond it were the limbs of a tall tree. The tree spread out nearly touching the house on one side and extending over the stone fence separating the yard from the street on the other.

Chekov chewed on his lower lip. If the limbs were less sturdy or more slippery than they looked, he could easily fall and break his neck. While he was considering negatives, he thought he might as well admit to himself that he didn't really have enough time to do this anyway. Tarell would probably only give him around a half hour before she came back to torture him. In that time he couldn't get out of the range of her scanner without means of transport other than his own feet.

He swallowed hard. He couldn't stay. Tarell had his weaknesses pinpointed too well. He was too close to a complete capitulation to risk delay. He had to go on the hopes that he would find transport. At the least, a half hour would probably give him enough time to find and free Ghyka.

"That is what is most important," he said, quieting the internal warnings that activated when he stepped up on the window's sill. "I must see that Commander Ghyka gets back to the lieutenant."

Holding on to a created mental picture of Uhura rapturously welcoming the two of them back on board the ship, Chekov grabbed a sturdy looking nearby limb. It sagged dangerously as it accepted his full weight, but held as he quickly moved hand over hand towards the tree's trunk. Once he reached it, he was able to stand on one of the larger limbs and catch his breath.

"Lt. Uhura would probably think I was insane for doing that," he admitted looking back to see if he'd aroused any notice from Tarell's house. "But she would still be very, very pleased."

Once on the other side of the trunk, he climbed outwards and down toward the stone wall. From the top of the wall was only an easy drop of less than six feet to the dirt street. He landed solidly on his feet. He looked around for passersby as he dusted himself off. This part of the street seemed deserted. It was getting close to dusk. Probably very few people would still be out at this time of day in a rural village like this one. Unfortunately, to get to where he thought Ghyka was, he had to pass straight though the middle of town.

"Uhura would very proud of me for making the attempt," he assured himself as he set off in that direction, wishing for beautiful brown skin like the lieutenant's that would camouflage him better.

A few houses down from Tarell's, he saw a cart filled with sacks of something. He hurried towards it. The occasional stone in the road reminded him just how long it had been since he'd walked barefoot. He resisted the urge to break out into a run as he neared the cart, telling himself that was just pure counter-productive panic on his part. If this was going to be anything other than a completely futile gesture of defiance, he had to keep his head.

He didn't pause to find out what was in the sacks. He simply plucked one off the back the cart as he passed without breaking stride. It was very light. It rustled like leaves. Probably part of someone's harvest.

"Marvelous," he thought, hefting it over his shoulder in a way that blocked most of his face from view. "Now I'm also a thief."

His thoughts began to stray dangerously towards what would happen to him should he be caught as he neared the center of the town. 'That's nothing next to what they do to you if they catch you outside these walls,' Tirst had said. Well, he was most definitely outside Tarell's walls.

"It doesn't matter what Tarell thinks," he whispered to himself. "All that matters is that Lt. Uhura would be very, very happy with me."

To combat the throbbing in his temples, he forced himself to keep generating mental images of the Enterprise's chief communications officer. Instead of speculating on the horrible vengeance Tarell would doubtless bring upon him, he made himself focus on how much he liked and respected the lieutenant.

A cart rumbled up the dirt road ahead of him. Although he could feel the thud of his heart in his throat, Chekov kept his thoughts on Uhura -- how kind she was, how beautiful.

The ensign found himself approaching the one landmark he knew in this town -- the barn where he was sold to Tarell. He crossed the street to avoid it. To counter the image his mind automatically produced of the fat woman waddling out into the street, spotting him, dragging him inside and treating him to a hypo full of poison, he made himself imagine Uhura doing something counteractively pleasant - kissing him.

'Not a good choice,' he admonished himself, biting his lip to keep from giggling. 'Good for morale, but very bad for concentration.'

Figuring that good morale was rather important at this time, he indulged himself a moment longer. After a moment, though, he realized that his morale had gotten so good, he'd stopped walking.

"That's enough," he reproved himself, shifting his sack of leaves and setting off again. "I don't think the lieutenant would approve of that... It's Ghyka she wants. I must find Ghyka."

From the information he'd managed to gather, the intelligence officer was in a red house that couldn't be seen from this street.

"Oh, wonderful," the ensign said, taking time to think for the first time why this would be a problem for someone searching at street level. He slowed down and looked up at the houses surrounding him. At least the second story was visible on all of them. "Why wouldn't I be able to see the house from the street?"

"Because," he answered himself, as he spotted a likely candidate, "it has a very high stone fence, is only one story tall and is set far back from the road."

He set off for the low roof he could see peeking over the top of the most massive fence on the street as fast as he dared. He knew that he wouldn't have a lot of time to check out another location. Tarell's inevitable discovery that he was missing drew nearer with each passing second. Also as the sunlight faded, a red house would become increasingly hard to distinguish.

Another problem didn't occur to him until he stood looking up at the eight or nine feet of stone the owner of this lot had erected.

There were plenty of trees inside the fence, but none outside. After looking around a moment, the ensign crossed to the point where a neighbor's barbran stick fence met the stone fence. The stick fence was only about three feet tall. It groaned and cracked under his weight but provided a sufficient boost to allow him to find footholds in the stone fence.

He wished briefly for his boots as the rough edges of the stones cut into his feet. Somehow, though, real pain didn't seem that bad compared to the amplified torment he had suffered under Tarell's hands.

There was a narrow ledge at the top of the fence. He crouched there, looking at the crimson walls of the large house inside the fence. His conditioning rewarded him with a burst of pleasure for having gotten this far in his quest.

"Now to find Ghyka," he whispered, crawling towards the house along the top of the stone fence.

He saw that he could cross to the red house the same way he'd left Tarell's. As in his owner's yard, there were trees whose limbs extended both over the top of the fence and over the roof of the house.

Either the trees in this person's yard were of a hardier species, he noted with satisfaction as he swung out onto one, or he was getting better at this. He'd never been much at climbing trees, but this particular one was fairly easy, with big broad limbs that he could walk along while steadying himself with his hands on a limb just above his head.

He dropped carefully onto the thatched roof. Pieces of straw-like material stabbed at his fingers and toes as he crawled towards the edge on all fours. The ensign bit his lip as if that could muffle the crunching noise he made as he moved. From the edge of the roof, he intended to find a window to enter, but looking into the backyard, he saw a sight that stopped him cold.

Tied with arms extended to the side of one of the outbuildings on the far side of the yard was a dark-skinned man with hair shorter than a Ganzarite in this part of the continent would ever wear theirs.

"Ghyka." Chekov smiled as a pleasing warmth spread like sunshine over him. "I've found Ghyka."

His elation faded as he paused to think what the intelligence officer could be doing tied to the side of a barn. There was a Ganzarite male sitting on the ground near Ghyka. It looked like he was posted there as a guard.

"That's strange," the ensign said to himself. If the woman who had purchased the commander was equipped similarly to Tarell, a guard would be superfluous. A scanner could more reliably report an attempted escape.

Chekov closed his eyes as the implications of that thought hit him. Whoever abducted Ghyka probably tagged him -- as the ensign had been tagged -- so his movements were traceable by a scan unit. Alarms would sound in the house as soon as the commander left the acceptable monitoring perimeter.

Chekov sat down heavily on the roof and put his head in his hands. There were quite a few things he hadn't bothered to think through with the tiny segment of his brain he could use painlessly. This rescue attempt was beginning to stand out as one of the most rash and ill-considered things he'd done in his long history of doing rash and ill-considered things. He was beginning to feel almost as idiotic as Tarell accused him of being.

The thought of the Ganzarite made his mouth go dry. Very soon now she would be entering her empty bedchamber and finding a pair of belled shoes sitting in front of an open window...

He swallowed hard and looked up at the stars. "The lieutenant wouldn't want me to quit now," he encouraged himself. "Perhaps the presence of a guard indicates a less efficient method of surveillance is being employed."

Chekov carefully made his way down to the lowest edge of the roof. Hanging onto that edge, he dropped down to the ground and began a quiet approach to the back of the Ganzarite watching Ghyka.

The ensign thought he'd surely given himself away when the thick stick he lifted from the top of a neatly stacked pile of wood caused a smaller stick to clatter to the ground. The guard only shifted in his place as though incompletely roused from a doze.

Ghyka made no move. This worried Chekov. As he crept closer, he could see the extent of the damage done to the intelligence officer. Bleeding welts crisscrossed the commander's back. Chekov began to fear that Ghyka had died either of his wounds or the shock of the unnaturally amplified pain he'd feel from them. Convincing himself that he could see the intelligence officer's back moving with the intake of breath, the ensign crept up behind the guard.

At the sound of the stick of wood connecting with the back of the guard's head, Ghyka's eyes opened. "Chekov?"

"Oh... Yes, sir." Chekov sprang belatedly into action, rolling the guard aside. He bit his lip to keep from smiling at the waves of pleasure coursing through him as he struggled with the tight knots around Ghyka's wrists and upper arms.

"Where are the others?" Ghyka's whisper was cracked and weak, but his eyes were alert. "How did you find me? They removed my implants."

"I know, sir." The knots were very intricate. It didn't help that the growing darkness was making it difficult to see them. "They took me at the same time. I'm afraid there aren't any others."

"They took you?" The intelligence officer was as insultingly incredulous as a Ganzarite. "Then how are you resisting the conditioning?"

Chekov felt like the knots were tightening instead of loosening under his fingers. "Lt. Uhura told me I had to make sure you got back to the ship safely. I am concentrating on following her orders."

"Yes," the ensign agreed, smiling. "She is very beautiful. A most kind and intelligent person."

"Ensign," the commander prompted, as Chekov ceased moving altogether as he contemplated the finer qualities of his benefactress.

"Sorry, sir." The ensign turned hastily back to the stubborn knots. "If you don't mind my asking, sir, how are you resisting them?"

"The experimental drug works," Ghyka informed him as he was finally able to wriggle one wrist free. "It killed the organic part of the control device within the first twelve hours."

"Control device?" Chekov had to stop and put his hands to his temples. The commander's words seemed familiar in a way that hurt to think about. "Half organic?"

"Don't think about it," Ghyka ordered. "They must have programmed you to forget the briefing you were given on the device and how it works."

"I was briefed?" It was impossible not to think about such a thing. He wondered what other subjects had been erased from his mind. He wondered what this "device" was. Ghyka made it sound as though something had been implanted in his body... something half organic....

"Don't think about it, ensign!" the intelligence officer hissed sharply as the ensign's face contorted with pain. "That's an order, Mister!"

"Yes, sir," Chekov answered, shakily returning to the knots. After that last jolt, it was quite easy to not think. His mind felt as blank as a clean slate.

"Try to think about something else," Ghyka suggested as the ensign freed his left arm. "I suppose you've seen plenty evidence of Orion interference."

"Yes, sir. The woman who..." The words "owns me" almost fell from Chekov's lips. "... who I was with grows what they call 'sleeping chutzi' for the Orions. It is a mold with a long dormancy that causes a blight. I think the Orions are using it for environmental sabotage. Against who, I don't know."

Chekov put his questions on hold as the two of them working together rapidly freed Ghyka's other arm. The intelligence officer took a moment to painfully flex his shoulders, then motioned for the ensign to follow him to the rock wall.

Chekov marvelled at the way Ghyka, despite the terrible wounds on his back, boosted the ensign up to the top of the wall then climbed up himself unassisted. Chekov began to believe the stories he'd heard about intelligence agents being superhuman as he climbed down the other side of the fence into some unknown neighbor's yard.

Ghyka winced as he landed next to Chekov. "Good old Ganzarite hospitality," he said, gingerly touching his back.

"Ask me that when we're on the Enterprise, Ensign," Ghyka replied, then pointed to the small stick fence marking the end of the lot they were in. "This way."

Beyond the fence were trees, cultivated fields and in the distance, small hills. Once they were over the fence and into a thicket of trees, Chekov felt he could breathe freely for the first time in a long time.

"I can understand the motivation for the Orions to destroy Klingon agricultural colonies," he said, giving vent to the question that had been burning in his mind for the past few minutes. "And I suppose the Klingons might have insufficient technology to prevent or detect such sabotage, but, sir, I thought we were here to investigate rumors of a Klingon presence."

Ghyka leaned heavily against a tree. "Ensign, if there are any Klingons on Ganzar, they are here in the same capacity that you and I have been here for the past few days. This is an Orion-run show."

"We've had indications, but we didn't know what or how it was being done. This sleeping chutzi stuff is the best explanation I've heard. You see, we've had great difficulty investigating here. We can get people in, but we can't always get them back out. Escaping from Ganzar is..."

The intelligence officer paused and looked at him for a long moment. "Ensign, I'm going to be completely honest with you right now."

Ghyka rubbed his wrists and studied the night sky. "If I can get them, I need samples of this 'sleeping chutzi'. Also the electronic equipment in the house you were in -- I suppose there was a computer as well as the security system? -- I could use them to construct a beacon to signal the Enterprise."

There was something awful about the way the intelligence officer was phrasing these things. "Are you suggesting that we break into Tarell's house?" the ensign asked, hoping that was the extent of the awfulness.

"If there's a chance you've not been missed, you need to go back," Ghyka said mercilessly. "We'll have a better chance at getting what we need if one of us is working from the inside."

"Commander, run!" he managed to gasp before the first stars of the Ganzarite evening faded to a wall of solid black.

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