Rate of exchange

Chekov knelt in the dirt with this hands crossed behind his head and waited his turn to be searched. He kept his eyes lowered and tried not to hear the tiny noises of distress being made by the young woman in line ahead of him. It was her turn with the security officers. She didn't protest, but little noises -- almost like a puppy might make -- escaped her whenever they...

Chekov squeezed his eyes closed. He had never felt like such a coward in his life. To simply sit there staring at his knees while next to him a woman was being...

The ensign was careful to keep his eyes lowered and his hands clasped behind his neck as he rose and turned to face the security officer.

"Yes, sir." The ensign was wearing -- as all male servants did -- a long vest-like garment with short sleeves, a pair of drawstring pants that ended about mid-calf, and a pair of tattered sandals. As he struggled with the buttons, another security officer ran a scanner over him. This was sufficient to establish what he was or was not trying to secret on his person, but the Romulans always insisted on carrying out a physical search as well.

Apparently he was not moving fast enough for the satisfaction of the guard who pushed the ensign's hands away and tore off the last button.

Chekov watched it hit the dust as he re-clasped his hands behind his neck and concentrated on that rather than on the Romulan's hands as they ran roughly over his back and chest. He looked away as the guard vigorously squeezed and prodded. God knows what he thought he was going to find that way. They probably didn't expect to anything. It was merely a way to pass their day -- another routine act of intimidation against the captive population.

As the Romulan ran his hands over the ensign's pants, citizens and servants passed by the security post on the hot dusty street without so much as a sideways glance. Chekov was still amazed that sentient beings could become so hardened to the ill treatment of fellow creatures.

"Master's name?" the second Romulan asked, pulling the ensign's chin up so he could check the id bar on the thin metal collar around Chekov's neck.

"Vahtik," he answered quickly as the first guard continued his search inside the ensign's loose-fitting trousers.

If you happened to be speaking during this part of the search, the guards often found it amusing to see if they could make your voice go up.

"And who is your package for?" the Romulan asked -- again completely unnecessarily. This information was displayed on the wristlock they'd already removed.

"Dep..." Chekov closed his eyes and winced. The other guard had been ready this time. "Deputy Garrison Commander Tav," he finished as the guards chuckled to themselves.

"I remember you," the second officer said, turning the ensign's head to face him. "You were the boy who got offended the other day."

Chekov could feel the blood pounding in his face. The Intelligence officers who had briefed him had warned him that as a courier he would be subject to these random searches, but their words had failed to convey the utterly demeaning, casual vileness of the act. "Yes, sir."

"Are we offending you today?" the other Romulan asked, his hands still inside the ensign's garments.

Chekov swallowed the truth like it was a mouthful of dust. "No, sir," he choked.

"That's good." The second guard patted the ensign's cheek roughly. "Because Deputy Garrison Commander Tav likes to have his packages delivered promptly... And a truly thorough search takes so very long, doesn't it?"

"I don't know." The first guard stood and frowned. "I think he's behaving suspiciously again."

"Suspicious?" his fellow officer asked in mock disbelief. "But he's being so cooperative."

"Suspiciously cooperative," the Romulan pronounced. "I think he needs another good search like the one he had before."

"Is he right, boy?" the other guard asked. "Are you being suspiciously cooperative?"

"I.. I.." Chekov stammered, realizing there was no correct answer he could give his tormentors. An affirmative answer would be taken to mean that he was acting suspiciously and a negative answer would be taken to mean he was not being cooperative.

"Then again, I don't know if I want to get my hands that dirty so early in the morning," the guard said, pulling Chekov's right wrist down and re-attached the manacle that locked the ensign's package into a carrying position. "All right. Go on, then."

"No, sir," the ensign answered as he knelt, knowing full well that if he had tried to pick the button up without saying anything he would have been struck or possibly shot. He was able to get the tiny object before the guard landed a kick that sent him sprawling into the street.

"We'll see you again this afternoon." The Romulan grinned as the ensign picked himself up.

"Yes, sir," Chekov agreed miserably as he set off for the Deputy Garrison Commander's residence.

The officers who had briefed him for this mission had drilled into him the extreme danger he would be in. "If you screw up," they'd told him over and over. "You die. Mr. Spock dies. Hundreds of people you don't even know yet die." At the time, he had thought they were being patronizing, but he could see why they had done so now. The danger of this assignment was so intense and constant that one quickly became numb to it. The possibility that he might be discovered, interrogated and executed was not so real and bothersome as the certainty that this afternoon as he tried to complete his regular delivery route he was going to be stopped, searched and kicked by these same grinning Romulans.

Immediately he caught himself, and looked around to make sure no one had heard. Even swearing was dangerous... especially when the curse came out in the wrong language. The non-Romulans on this planet were humanoid, but not Human. They were Minaran, a race so close to Terran Humans that only blood tests could reveal the differences. When Minar joined the Federation, they complained that the Romulans had captured a colony of theirs almost ten years before. Word had managed to leak out that the colonists were being used as slave labor.

In response to the Minaran's pleas -- or perhaps just using them as an excuse to carry out a covert operation on the wrong side of the Neutral Zone -- Star Fleet Intelligence had infiltrated the captive population of the planet.

As part of their long-term plan to free the colonists, Intelligence had decided to temporarily enlist the services of Vulcan officer who could pass as a Romulan. The recent destruction of the U.S.S. Intrepid had narrowed their choices dramatically.

In addition, they also requested a Human to accompany Spock, posing as his servant and acting as a go-between to the agents already on the planet. Captain Kirk had been most displeased when his offer to do so was rejected. Chekov had been quite astonished to be chosen instead.

The Intelligence officers had specified that they wanted someone who had worked with Spock closely for a long period of time. Their reports indicated that Romulan residences were routinely bugged by the Security forces -- perhaps to combat the possibility of violent revolt by the Minarans they took as servants or possibly because they just didn't trust one another. At any rate, Spock and the officer acting as his servant had to be familiar enough with each other to carry on coded communication accurately for the possibly months-long duration of the mission. Most importantly, they wished the officer playing the servant to truly be Spock's subordinate, further minimizing the chance that he would slip in his role even in private. The more Chekov thought of it, the less complimented he was that Intelligence had found him to be sufficiently servile for this assignment.

He drew in a deep breath as he stepped down the cool stone steps to the Deputy Garrison Commander's residence and hoped the guardsman on duty in the foyer would be in a good mood.

The Romulan behind the high desk just inside the long hallway didn't look in an appreciably better state of mind than he had been yesterday. He leisurely finished picking his teeth before he grunted permission for the ensign to hand him the package.

Chekov watched as the guardsman disarmed the wristlock that connected him to his burden. At first the ensign had worried about this device which fit tightly around his wrist and was designed to inject him with a poisonous mixture if any attempt was made to improperly disconnect it from the packages he delivered. After the first thirty deliveries, however, he'd ceased to think about it.

Instead of letting him go, the Romulan suddenly grabbed his hand. "What have you got in your fist?" he demanded, his other hand on his gun.

Chekov looked down at his left hand. "A button," he answered, careful not to make any sudden move.

"Yes, sir," the ensign answered dutifully. Knowing that he was probably going to be refused, Chekov hesitated a moment then took in a deep breath before asking, "Sir, may I get a drink of water from your kitchen before I leave?"

The guard frowned, but took in a breath as if he might be on the verge of relenting.

"No," a new and unexpected voice said. "You may not get a drink of water and you may not leave."

Chekov turned, his heart in his throat. A Romulan in a senior officer's uniform stood in one of the doorways behind him... The Deputy Garrison Commander himself?

"Come with me." The Romulan pointed a command for him to head for the office at the end of the hallway.

Chekov swallowed hard, feeling suddenly very ill. Even if this was not the Deputy Commander, he was still headed for the Deputy Commander's office. "Yes, sir," he said, reluctantly moving as he was directed.

There was no good reason he could think of why the Deputy Commander would wish to speak to him. He was in trouble... perhaps a lot of trouble. The ensign sneaked a look at the very straight back of the officer in front of him. Almost definitely a lot of trouble...

Chekov quickly lowered his eyes as the Romulan held the door open. He surreptitiously sighted out possible escape routes. There were several open windows but they were high and small. A closed door to his right probably led further into the residence. It didn't really matter. This probably wasn't the sort of situation from which a person could merely run away.

The click of the Romulan's boots echoed in the large office as he slowly approached the ensign. Stepping in front of him, the officer held out his hand.

Chekov's heart sank as he realized the Romulan was asking for the button. 'So this is it,' he thought, taking in a deep breath and squaring his shoulders as he surrendered the object. 'Now we die.'

The officer put the button on the desk without looking at it. "I don't know you, boy," he said, turning back to the ensign. "Who are you?"

"I'm... I'm.." For one horrible second Chekov teetered on the verge of really telling him. The question was extremely unusual. In the eyes of most Romulans, the Minarans didn't have individual identities. The only information worth asking for was to which Romulan a servant was connected. "I work for Vahtik, a seller of...."

"I..." Chekov was completely confused now. "I work in his shop. I make deliveries..."

"Oh," the Romulan said rather snidely, as he leaned against the desk and crossed his arms, "I thought you meant you were employed by him."

The ensign could see the officer's game now. He had accidentally used a word reserved for the master race. "No, sir."

"Yes, sir." Though obnoxious, the officer's conduct was somewhat of a relief. This would be a rather strange way to waste time with someone you knew to be a spy. Chekov's heart started beating normally again as he examined his sandalled toes. Perhaps he was just in trouble in the routine way -- merely for being alive and not Romulan.

The Romulan crossed his arms. "I suppose Vahtik must have bought you straight off one of the agricultural units in the South?"

"Yes, sir." Chekov thought that the Intelligence officers who had prepared him for the mission would be pleased to hear this guess. They gone to great lengths to create this impression -- including treating the ensign's hands so they appeared calloused. A rather odd part of his preparation had been being drilled on cutting-edge covert data transmission techniques while he endlessly dug and filled holes with primitive farming equipment.

"There are some who as soon as they find themselves not shovelling manure for the first time in their lives try to put on airs," the officer said. "I hope you're not one of those."

The Romulan didn't reply at first. Instead he walked a maddeningly slow half-circle around the ensign.

"Oh, I think you are," he said at last. "There's a touch of arrogance about you."

Chekov kept his eyes on his toes and silently willed every ounce of remaining pride out of his body.

"Head up," the Romulan ordered suddenly. He picked up a measuring stick off the desk and tapped the ensign's shoulders with it. "Come now. Stand straight. Shoulders back. Look ahead."

The officer then stepped back and nodded, like a sculptor enjoying his own handiwork. "Yes. That's better."

Chekov realized that he was now standing -- as the Intelligence Officers had scolded him for doing so often -- like an Academy cadet on parade.

"Sir," he said, shifting uncomfortably as he tried to resume a more humble position, "my deliveries must be completed by..."

The sound of the measuring stick smacking against the desk was like the report of a gun. The ensign froze.

"A mere slave who doesn't have the time in his busy schedule to speak to the Deputy Commander of this Garrison?" The Romulan made a tsk-tsk sound. "More than a touch of arrogance I see."

Chekov fought to keep his expression neutral as the Romulan again corrected his posture with light taps of the measuring stick.

"There." The Deputy Commander stepped back and folded his arms. "And I'll have you stand here like this for the rest of the day... the rest of the week if I so choose. Do you understand?"

The ensign was momentarily too angry to reply. What purpose was this serving? Why couldn't they just leave him alone?

"You have good features," the Romulan commented. "You look almost Romulan... as much as is possible for one of your species. But I'm sure you've been told that before."

"No, sir," Chekov didn't bother to censor the contemptuous tone out of his reply. The more obvious it became that this bastard was just looking for some reason to beat him, the less motivated he felt to try to avoid it. Better to just give him a reason and get it all over with. He actually did have better things to do with his time than stand around waiting to be abused by a minor official.

"Really?" The Deputy Commander appeared to consider this response carefully as he crossed to behind his desk and sat down. "And who did you say your master was?"

"Yes," Chekov admitted. The ensign could hear the sound of approaching feet. He wondered who had been summoned to join the fun.

"Good, then we'll see more of each other." The Romulan turned to address the person who opened the door from inside the residence. "Get him a drink of water before he goes."

Taking this as a dismissal, Chekov looked to the side. The newcomer was a male servant, a tall man with blond hair. The ensign blinked to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. The servant the Romulan had summoned was by some remarkable coincidence the very man the ensign had come here to contact.

It occurred to him once more that this could be a trap. He bit his lip. If it was, there didn't seem to be anything he could do to avoid it.

"Aren't you going to thank me, then?" the Deputy Commander asked holding the button between his fingers.

He stood there for a moment clutching the incriminating evidence and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

'Perhaps they're waiting for me to make the exchange,' Chekov thought as they passed down the corridor.

The servant, whose real name the ensign knew to be Lt. Commander Dave Thompson, smiled as he opened the door to the kitchen for him. "Not very talkative, are you?"

"Oh, uhm..." Chekov knew the Intelligence officer was waiting for a recognition code. Even if this was a trap and they didn't go through with the exchange, he decided he could still communicate with the man. "You look like someone I once knew at Urstok."

"Relative or acquaintance?" Thompson asked completing the pattern as he led the ensign past a noisy row of servants washing pots and pans to a water pump located in the corner of the room. "It's all right. We can talk here."

"Why?" the Intelligence man asked, drawing him a cup of water. "Because you've been told there's a Romulan sympathizer among Tav's servants?"

"Oh." Chekov had not yet ceased to be amazed by the sheer deviousness of these Intelligence agents. That one of them should decide to strategically leak information without notifying the others seemed crazy to the ensign, but it was not untypical of the way these people operated. "That must be convenient."

"Oh, no. He doesn't," Thompson assured him, as he reached out and took the button. "Here let me see that."

Chekov drank the cup of water and kept his eyes peeled for trouble as the agent quickly unwrapped a sting-sized data filament from around the base of the button.

"The code sequence you need to know is Z1,2 and 12," the agent informed him. "I hope you can remember that."

The ensign nodded, although he was now familiar enough with the code to know that one element of it contained a request for additional data transmission equipment -- a request that under these circumstances would be very hard if not impossible to fill. It would be simpler just to forget that part of the sequence.

"I was beginning to get offended." Thompson wrapped the filament around a button of his own. "You've visited everyone else."

"The guard won't ever let me get anything to drink," he replied, setting the cup down. "And I was told not to use any other excuse to get to the kitchen."

"Yes. Just stick to it." Thompson laid the button down next to the cup. "Now that he's let you come in once, he'll let you do it again."

"Yeah." The agent pumped out another cup of water. "Why did he have you in his office?"

Chekov felt this was something Thompson should have known before going through with the exchange. "I don't know."

"Nothing." Chekov paused before lifting the cup to his lips and gave a short laugh. "He said I looked Romulan."

The Intelligence man did not find this amusing. "That's bad," he said, then took the cup from the ensign. He turned Chekov's face from side to side. "Oh, no. You do."

"You don't want to know," Thompson assured him, handing him the cup. "Just stay clear of Tav."

"I didn't exactly seek him out this time," the ensign reminded him before finishing the drink.

"Yeah, well..." Thompson shrugged. "Just try not to look so Romulan around here."

Chekov sighed ruefully as he handed the agent the cup. "That doesn't seem to be a general problem. The other Romulans are not exactly mistaking me for one of their own."

Thompson did smile this time. "Tough time, huh?" he asked, leading the ensign to a back doorway.

"Don't complain, kid," the agent advised, ushering the ensign out. "You don't live here."

Chekov looked up guiltily. Out of consideration for Vulcan sensibilities, he tried to keep his emotions in check while inside the dwelling he shared with Mr. Spock. It would seem he had failed once again.

It must have been pretty bad this time. He hadn't even had the chance to get inside the house. Spock had come out to meet him by the fountain in the front garden.

"I... I..." The ensign struggled to regain control of himself and think of a proper coded phrase for what happened.

"It's nothing. I will repair it," Chekov replied quickly, then reported, "Deputy Garrison Commander Tav called me into his office."

"Very well," the Vulcan said, although his expression said he'd rather pursue the subject further. "I have a guest."

"Oh." That would explain why Spock had come out to meet him -- to warn him, not because he was radiating waves of unacceptable emotion.

"Again?" Chekov was beginning to believe that Agricultural Coordinator Zasat had a crush on his superior officer.

"That is not an appropriate response," Spock cautioned as he opened the door to the interior.

"Yes, sir." Chekov hid his smile as he followed his superior in out of the heat. He got the impression that the Vulcan wasn't very enthusiastic about their regular lunchtime visitor either.

Zasat was not one of the svelte and exotic Romulan beauties one chanced encounter infrequently. She was a middle-aged woman with a broad, round face and pointed features. She wasn't fat -- Chekov had yet to see a fat Romulan in this place -- but was somewhat stocky and short. By nature, she was talkative -- a busybody, Chekov thought of her uncharitably. However, this quality made her a very good potential resource for information gathering.

Still, he reflected as he bowed to her politely before continuing on the kitchen, he was glad he wasn't the one who had to endure her constant stream of comments and questions as he tried to eat his lunch. "I'll have a dish of pla'tza out for you in a moment, ma'am."

Sometimes the ensign really regretted deciding to use his own first name (slaves only got one) instead of an assumed one. It cut down of the risk that he would forget or fail to respond under a pressure situation, but he still couldn't quite get used to the way it could sound like a synonym for "stupid incompetent" in a Romulan mouth.

Ryo Mizuno, another of the Intelligence operatives, was waiting by back door for him. Mizuno worked for... belonged to one of the local grocers.

"Where the hell have you been?" he asked as the ensign deactivated the lock on the door.

"At Deputy Commander Tav's," Chekov replied getting the device that would deactivate the agent's wristlock.

Food delivery was the area where the elaborate Romulan security system broke down. Because the majority of Romulans on this outpost were vegetarians and used only primitive forms of refrigeration, fresh food stuff was delivered to most residences almost daily. Deliveries were so frequent and trivial that many Romulans allowed a trusted servant to operate the wristlock release. This was not in accordance with civil codes, but was a common practice. So common, in fact, that the Federation agents used it as their primary method of transferring materials of all sorts from one household to the next.

"You made a delivery there?" Mizuno asked as the ensign checked through the packet of fruits and grains.

"Yes." Chekov switched a piece of red fruit for one in a basket on the counter. "Deputy Commander Tav wanted to speak to me."

"Stay away from him," Mizuno advised, his eyes on the fruit. "You have an order?"

"Yes." The ensign tapped the fruit three times. "You've given us too many of these."

Mizuno nodded as he re-wrapped the package. "That's all right. I'm sure they'll be able to use the extra next door. Anything else?"

"Yes, some vitamin supplement," Chekov said carefully. "He'd like to try the zeta series -- one, two and twelve."

"Yeah, but you're the one who's going to have to give it to him," Mizuno said, wearing the code cover of the conversation a little thin.

"I know." Chekov sighed as he took out a bowl for the new fruit. "My master is working on a difficult repair for Security Director Gazt. He's not getting enough sleep."

Mizuno's eyes opened with interest. "Perhaps some chahitha berry tea would help."

Chekov suppressed an urge to groan. It was always a bad sign when the Intelligence officers got excited about something. He dreaded hearing what they would want him to do at the Director's office.

They were interrupted by the unexpected entrance of Zasat. She frowned and crossed her arms. "You should be ashamed, Pavel. Gossiping with the delivery boy while Vahtik and I starve."

"Yes, ma'am." Chekov hurriedly left the groceries to fetch her the bottle of ale he knew she was after. He didn't like the fact that Zasat was such a frequent visitor to the residence that she now felt free to barge into any part of the house she pleased at will.

She cast a disapproving eye on Mizuno as she accepted the bottle and glass. "Go on, boy. You've dawdled here long enough."

"Yes, my lady." The agent gathered his remaining packages and backed towards the door deferentially. "I'll try to bring the tea later this afternoon, Pavel."

"I'll inform Vahtik," the ensign responded unenthusiastically, closing the door behind him.

He hoped that now that Zasat had restored the place to proper order, she would also retire. Instead, she poured herself a glass of the blue beverage and leaned against the door frame with the air of someone who intended to stay a while.

Chekov decided she had a question about Spock that she wanted to ask as he got out the cutting board and the dicer. Zasat was not the sort of person who wasted a lot of time with servants. It must be a rather sensitive question, he concluded as he cut into a piece of yellow fruit, for her not just to blurt it out. She seemed to be trying to be subtle. Despite the reputation Romulans had for cunning, Zasat still normally managed to be about as subtle as a water buffalo.

'Well, if she wishes to watch,' he thought, placing the diced pieces into a dish and sprinkling them with spice, 'then she can watch.'

"No," she said suddenly and snatched the shaker of spice out of his hand. She took three different shakers down from hanging rack over the preparation counter.

"This," she said holding out the original shaker, "goes on last. These..." The metal containers each made a sharp clanking noise as she firmly lined them up on the stone surface before the ensign. "...are next. But first..." Zasat took a bottle of a vinegar-like substance and poured it over the bowl of fruit. "You soak them. And if you really want to please your master..." She added a splash of her ale. "You see?"

"Yes," he said, hoping she actually knew more about Romulan cuisine than he did. "Thank you."

"You're a terrible cook, Pavel," she observed as he placed another piece of fruit on the dicer.

"Yes," he replied adding a little extra force as he pressed the blades together. "So you've told me."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he apologized automatically as he discarded the core and stem. She was right, though. Familiarity with her was breeding contempt at a pace as steady as mushrooms might multiply on an old stump.

She rested her thick forearms against the high stone counter. "But you seem to be a good boy."

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, despite the fact that he privately thought that if he heard himself or any other adult male referred to as a "boy" again today, he was going to retch.

"Vahtik certainly approves of you." She topped off her glass of ale. "I offered him one of my best boys to help with the household work -- which you seem to do only when the mood takes you -- but he wouldn't hear of it."

Chekov half-wished Spock could take her up on her offer. In addition to his deliveries and duties in the shop, the household chores were just too big a job for one person to handle.

'Of course,' he thought unkindly as he placed another piece of fruit on the dicer, 'the appearance of the house and the quality of the food wouldn't be an issue at all if we didn't have a certain guest for lunch almost every day.'

"I think I can see why he turned me down, though," Zasat said, picking an ale-soaked morsel out of the bowl. "He's a man of laudably simple tastes. I tell you, many members of our younger generation would do well to aspire to his stoicism. What a remarkably disciplined mind that man has!"

Chekov had to struggle not to smile at the heartfelt sigh of admiration that followed this exclamation.

"He's probably uncomfortable with the seeming ostentation of a single man owning multiple slaves," she continued. "And I suppose it does seem excessive. After all, it is quiet common for a humble civil servant like myself to live here in control of a larger and more extensive household than could be afforded by a senator on the homeworld."

In a strange way, the Romulans weakness for this sort of "ostentation" as Zasat termed it had been a saving grace for the Minarans. Normally a Romulan invasion force would have exterminated a pre-existing colony on a newly conquered world without a second thought. Here, because of the seductive pleasures of slave owning and because the planet's main exports were agricultural products that required careful tending beyond the capabilities of machines and below the career aspirations of the average Romulan, the Minarans were allowed to live... after a fashion.

"Vahtik is satisfied with things as they are," Chekov said, sprinkling the unfamiliar spices over the fruit.

The ensign was so surprised he nearly dropped the shaker. Such questions were simply not addressed to servants. "Yes, of course I am."

"Then why did you tell Vahtik that Tav was flirting with you?" she asked, her little black eyes boring into him like a professional interrogator. "What were you trying to do? Make your master jealous?"

"Flirting with me?" the ensign repeated, absolutely floored by this interpretation.

"Yes. Teasing you. Saying you look like a Romulan. Why you look about as Romulan as... as.." She picked up a bumpy potato-like vegetable out of a basket on the counter. "As this thing does."

"Well, I know, but I..." Chekov trailed off, not know exactly what to say or what to think at this point.

"Come now, Pavel," she scolded. "You may not look Romulan, but you're both too sweet-faced and too old for me to believe this has never happened to you before."

"I..I.." The ensign stopped, cleared his throat, and tried to regain his composure. "Well, I.."

"As I was saying, Vahtik seems very attached to you. Now unless you just want to cause trouble, you keep your mouth shut about little incidents like the one with Tav today. Understand me?"

"It would be pretty sad state of affairs for there to be a misunderstanding or bad feelings between two important men like Vahtik and Tav over a silly little thing like you, wouldn't it?" she asked. "And don't roll those big eyes at me like a puppy that's been kicked. You know I'm only telling the truth."

The ensign wasn't sure if he knew anything of the sort. "Yes, ma'am," he replied nonetheless and kept his eyes on his work to avoid being compared to a puppy again.

She watched him silently for a moment then burst out with her short, sharp laugh. "You may not look like a Romulan," she grinned, "but you can certainly fall into a sulk as quick as one, can't you?"

Chekov wished there was a polite and deferential way of telling the bigmouthed old biddy to mind her own damned business.

"Come on, pretty boy," Zasat teased, giving his cheek a familiar pinch before she turned to leave. "Your master's waiting to choke down the mess you're going to throw together and attempt to pass off as lunch. Don't delay the misery... And don't forget the ale."

It was now late afternoon -- the relatively quiet part of the day. The ensign had finished his deliveries, prepared and cleaned up after the last meal of the day, swept the small workshop attached to the front of the residence, and completed a long list of other chores that would all have to be done again when he got up at sunrise the next morning. He was now sitting on the raised hearth of the large fireplace in the sitting room trying to sew the button back on his jacket. He would have liked to have been sitting in one of the several vacant seats, however, among the other indignities heaped on them, servants weren't allowed to use their owners' furniture.

"Thank you, sir," he said, grateful for the lighted lamp that Spock placed in a niche above him. "Yes, she did."

"For what purpose?" the Vulcan asked, sitting down in a beautifully crafted cherrywood chair nearby. He picked up yet another adinotronic assembly and inserted a diagnostic probe.

The ensign had not yet ceased to be amazed at the amount of work the man could accomplish. He seemed capable of repairing or custom designing hundreds of these little devices a day without tiring in addition to preparing the coded documents they passed on to the Intelligence agents. Chekov knew that after the curfew bell rang and the Vulcan had to lock him away for the night, Spock went back to the shop and worked until the wee hours of the morning and still managed to be completely alert and prepared to begin again at 5:30 in the morning when he let the ensign out to fetch the ice they'd need for that day.

"It's nothing to do with..." Chekov bit his tongue as the words "the mission" almost slipped past his lips. "...with anything important."

The Vulcan weighed this response carefully. Chekov finally decided to apply himself diligently to his needlework to avoid that questioning gaze.

Spock laid his work aside. "I'd like to go over the accounts, if you don't mind."

Chekov sighed wearily. This was the coded way of saying he'd like to have telepathic contact. It was something they did very infrequently, but sometimes telepathy was the quickest, most secure method they had of exchanging information. Part of the reason why he had been chosen for this mission is because Intelligence had brought up telepathy as a possibility and Spock had ruled that contact with the ensign's mind was "not objectionable." In fact, after a few initial experiments the Science Officer had indicated that establishing a light link to Chekov was very easy for him and that the ensign had very few of what he called "natural" barriers to intrusive psychic contact.

This last worried Chekov. It made him think about all the times he'd been the first to fall victim when aliens with the power to alter minds had threatened the Enterprise. After this mission he was resolved to try to somehow correct this deficiency in his "natural" defences.

"Pavel." Spock's voice stopped him. "We don't have to do this at this time if you do not wish to."

Chekov considered. Despite his embarrassment over the incident, the encounter with Tav was puzzling and perhaps significant. There were also impressions he had formed of Thompson -- the "loose cannon" type agent planted in the Deputy Commander's household -- that would be easier to relay as images than to put into coded words.

"No, sir," he said, getting up and walking over the writing desk. "I think we should."

"Very well." Spock retrieved a ledger and a writing utensil from a cabinet in the wall before joining him.

The desk was almost chest-high on the ensign. For some reason, Romulans designed tables to be stood at rather than sat around.

Chekov made himself take in long deep breaths as the Vulcan turned to the back of the ledger and wrote out a simple equation. This was a little game they played to prepare for contact. He handed the pen to the ensign and stepped slightly behind him, watching over the junior officer's shoulder as Chekov solved the problem. When it was complete, Spock reached around, took the pen, and wrote out another slightly more complex equation.

The math was never too hard, just challenging enough to focus his concentration. Still, Chekov thought as Spock reclaimed the pen, it was a little like trying to not think about elephants when being suddenly ordered not to think about elephants. Knowing that he needed to clear his mind just seemed to dredge up more and more distractions.

By the sixth problem, though, he began to fall into the rhythm of the exercise. There was almost a certain pleasure in it. The pen transferred from his left hand to Spock's right hand with such perfect coordination they seemed to be two sides of one body -- one brain working on the same problem.

The Vulcan rested his free hand on the ensign's back in what would look to a casual observer as mildly affectionate gesture.

Chekov knew that this meant Spock was comfortable enough to make telepathic contact. The ensign could never feel the moment of contact in his mind. He wasn't sensitive enough to detect such a superficial link. On a few occasions, he had assumed that contact had been broken and had been startled to suddenly hear the Vulcan's voice in his thoughts.

The ensign continued to concentrate on the equation in front of him. He wished he was more adept at telepathy... No, that wasn't it. What he actually wanted was a little more control. All day long he was under the control of others. Even in the privacy of their residence, he had to conform to unfair rules and regulations the Romulans had set down. Even in this most intimate activity -- this exploration his private thoughts, he had no control. He was a subordinate. Chekov wished that for just one moment he could feel like an equal partner.

Suddenly, in response to his thought, the ensign became aware of Spock -- not the Vulcan's mental voice relaying information or issuing a command as usual, but Spock's thoughts. There was concern about the mission, about the potential threat Tav might impose, a sorting through of the possibilities. There was also concern about the mechanism he was working on for Security Director Gazt. It was used in an interrogation device that was being tested on Minaran miscreants who were unlucky enough to be thrown into the garrison's stockade for some offence. If it proved effective, it would be used against Federation captives. Chekov could even "hear" the Vulcan composing the next equation for him to solve.

Spock let his hand slowly slide off the ensign's shoulder, gently breaking the link.

"Yes, sir." For a moment, Chekov almost felt like sighing the way Zasat had earlier. What a marvelously ordered and disciplined mind the man had! What an honor and a privileges to be allowed such an intimate glimpse at its workings. And to see himself in his superior's thoughts -- not colored by emotion, but judged with complete fairness, all his talents and all his faults taken into consideration -- was not flattering, but not dismaying either. He knew now, as he had perhaps always known, that Spock thought of him as an acceptable person who showed promise in many areas.

"You have twenty-three point eight minutes before curfew to complete your repairs," the Vulcan informed him, returning to his diagnostic tools.

"Yes, sir." Despite the fact that he really hated the stupid curfew rules, Chekov found he couldn't stop smiling. Even though he knew it was going to sound incongruous, he had to add, "Thank you, sir."

Chekov was sweeping out the hearth when the gate bell rang. Assuming it was Zasat, he sighed and dusted himself off before going to answer it. Trust the hypercritical old witch to come when he was in the midst of a task that had the sitting room in a terrible state. If she'd been complaining about his housekeeping skills before, she was going to have a field day with this...

Squinting into the morning sun, he could see the figure at the stone gate was not Zasat at all, but a tall, muscular man in a uniform.

The Romulan looked down his long nose at the ensign. "I have business with Vahtik."

"Yes, sir. The..." Chekov opened his mouth to explain that the entrance to the shop was on the other side of the building. He even got as far as pointing out the direction before he looked at the man before him and re-assessed. From his aspect, it was obvious that this Romulan was not a person who took directions from a mere slave even in a matter as trivial as this one. Chekov converted his pointing finger to a polite gesture forward. "If you'll follow me, sir?"

"Of course." The big Romulan stepped forward and crossed his arms. "I assumed that if the item was ready, it would have been sent to me by now."

In moving forward, the visitor had thoughtlessly trapped Chekov between a wall, a work table and the wrong side of the door.

"I wish to examine the device to see for myself what progress, if any, you've made," the Romulan continued grimly.

While the Vulcan rummaged through a container on the shelf behind him, Chekov fidgeted uncomfortably. The normal thing to do would be to excuse himself and squeeze past the disgruntled customer. However sneaking a glance at the Romulan's menacing frame, something told the ensign it would be better for him to keep as inconspicuous as possible.

Chekov blinked at the piece of machinery his superior officer was holding out. It was the assembly that was meant for the interrogation device. He'd seen it clearly in Spock's mind the night before. The ensign looked up at the Romulan as he turned the part over in his hands. Spock had addressed him as "Director." Security Director Gazt? Was this really the inhuman monster who tortured....

Suddenly the monster was once more looking down his nose at him. "Do I interest you, boy?"

"No, sir," Chekov answered automatically, then realizing how stupid that sounded hastily amended, "I mean, yes. I mean, pardon my..."

"Your boy speaks strangely," Gazt commented to Spock. "Where did you acquire him?"

"He was a worker on one of the southern collectives," the Vulcan replied calmly as Chekov clamped his mouth shut and studied his toes. "Pavel is... still adjusting to urban life."

It occurred to Chekov that should things go wrong with their mission, this was the very Romulan who would supervise his interrogation and execution. The ensign immediately regretted giving his imagination that much fodder.

The Security Director toggled a dormant switch on the device discontentedly. "It looks all but finished."

"This is only the casing, Director," Spock replied, reaching for the device. "I have encountered design problems in fitting the internal components to your specifications."

"Specifications be damned!" Gazt's palm landed heavily on the worktable. "I just want the blasted thing before one of us dies of old age!"

Spock, unlike his crewmate, did not so much as flinch. "I anticipate the work will be completed soon."

"That," the Vulcan replied coolly, "I cannot anticipate. Now, Director, if you will permit me to continue with my work?"

Gazt released an impatient breath before turning to go. "I'll give you a week, Vahtik," he warned, pausing at the door. "Then we'll see what an adjudicator has to say about this."

"What was that all about?" Chekov asked, handing the Vulcan a tiny tool that had rolled of the worktable during Gazt's outburst.

"That was an attempt to intimidate me into working faster," Spock answered, replacing the future interrogation device into its container. "Romulans are not famous for their patience."

"No, sir. I meant what he said about an adjudicator. Could he really take you to court?"

"Yes, but he would have no case -- at least not yet. The contract he signed for this job allows me several months to complete the work."

"Oh. Good." Chekov turned to exit through the back of the shop into the living quarters.

Having his superior call him by his first name always struck him as being a little odd. "Yes, sir?"

Chekov thought it might be his imagination, but the Vulcan looked somewhat uncomfortable. "Yes, sir?"

"Oh?" The ensign couldn't quite suppress the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "How nice."

The Vulcan was under no such temptation. "We were speaking of contracts. She brought up a point of contract law practiced locally that is so commonly understood it is generally not written into standard work agreements."

Chekov quickly sobered. This was a danger they were constantly running. Their information about this culture came from people posing as slaves not as business men. Some of the subtleties of business practice had not been noted by them -- and business on a far flung colony like this one certainly had its subtleties. Certain elements of the Standard Romulan Code were ignored or replaced by local variants. These variants were often not formally stated but were implicitly understood and had the force of law. The relationship between the actual observance of taxation practices in comparison to the official tax codes, for instance, was absolutely arcane.

"Under this practice, a workman's most valuable household possessions stand as guarantee of the quality of his work. If the quality of the work is found wanting, such possessions are forfeit to the customer until such time as satisfactory results are produced."

Chekov nodded, although he did not yet see anything unusual about the practice. It sounded very much in the spirit of the Common Code.

"Under local interpretation," Spock continued, "you would be assessed as my most valuable possession."

Chekov frowned. This sounded bad. Very bad. "But that can't be right," he objected. "Compared to the equipment in this room, my relative monetary value is small."

"Only household possessions can stand as guarantees," Spock explained. "A workman's means of doing business cannot be confiscated under this practice."

"Yes, I put the same argument forth to Zasat. She said that such circumstances might be taken into consideration but it was most likely you would be classified as a household possession -- particularly since I own so little else of value."

This was true. The house and shop were rented. The furniture had come with the dwelling. The money they came with was all tied up in the business.

"As you know, I have been considering making a visit to my homeworld some time in the near future."

The ensign felt his throat tighten. It was clear that they were now talking about his not leaving this planet for the foreseeable future.

"Zasat brought the matter to my attention when she made an offer to keep you for the duration of my time away from this planet."

"Most individuals would have precious items passed down to them by their family." Spock's cover identity was an orphan of uncertain parentage. This freed him of the burden of having to maintain a fictitious family. Because of what the Romulans considered Spock's patrician demeanor, the orphan story was unexpectedly received by the locals as indicating he was the dubious offspring of some notable personage. "Others would have collections of art objects, aged wines, or antique weapons that would be held for this purpose."

"Sir," Chekov said, "the business seems to be doing well. Couldn't you acquire such a collection of your own?"

"I can see you are somewhat new to the practice of capitalism, Pavel," Spock said. "Yes, the business is prospering. However because of startup costs, fixed expenses, contract fees and the like it may be many months before I actually show a profit."

"Zasat pointed out that if were to..." Spock hesitated over the word. "...marry, my wife's possessions could be considered..."

Spock cleared his throat. "That was her implication. She is rather wealthy. She seems to think it would be an advantageous union."

Despite the gravity of the situation and the enormity of the sacrifice Spock seemed to be willing to make to ensure the ensign's safety, the comically pained looked on his superior's face was causing a giggle to rise up in Chekov's throat.

"What? No one to answer the door?" Zasat was grumbling loudly. "Where is that lazy young... Merciful lords of sanity, what has he done? Dusted the place with ashes? Vahtik, where are you?"

"Vahtik, you are without a doubt the most cruelly abused master who ever owned a worthless slave," she continued, rapidly making her way though the apartment in their direction. "Whenever you catch that shiftless young rascal -- Oh, there you are, Pavel -- you ought to hang him up by his toes until his ears bleed. Have you seen the condition of your sitting room? Not to mention the fact that your front walk hasn't been swept in so long that you could plant a vegetable garden there. And just what are you grinning at, you young scoundrel?"

Chekov was having trouble sweeping away a rather amusing picture that formed in his mind of Spock and Zasat's potential domestic tranquility. "I'm... I'm... merely gratified that you will be taking lunch here today, ma'am. If you'll excuse me?"

Zasat shook her head as the ensign ducked through the doorway to the living quarters. "Lazy, shiftless, and insane to boot. You've got a real prize there, Vahtik."

Ryo Mizuno was waiting at the door for him when Chekov arrived in the kitchen. The Intelligence agent was heavily burdened with small packages of fruit.

"What's all this?" Chekov asked, letting him in and catching a package that slid off the top of the pile.

"Gifts," Mizuno explained, a little out of breath. "My master, knowing that your master is from the Orzono region on his home planet, took the liberty of preparing these oldone gifts."

"Gifts?" Chekov repeated, frowning as he helped Mizuno stack the packages on a countertop. He picked one up. It seemed to be a decorative arrangement of native fruit and nuts. "For who?"

"Oldone gifts are a traditional way of Orzono businessmen thank their customers for their patronage. Since I know the preferences of many of Vahtik's customers, I've marked some of the boxes that would be particularly pleasing to certain individuals." Mizuno took the package out of Chekov's hand and replaced it with another. "This one, you'll see," he said, tapping a red ink mark on the bottom, "contains some items that Deputy Garrison Commander Tav will appreciate."

Chekov nodded. So this was how Mizuno planned to get some bulkier items to the agent in Tav's and other's households. Either the foodstuff or the packaging contained items that would contain secret materials. Often material inserted in fruits or other foods would discolor the area surrounding it, making it look like the fruit had gone bad and insuring that it was unlikely to be eaten.

"Did you know that if one of Vahtik's customers is dissatisfied with his work, he can hold me until Vahtik fixes whatever is wrong?"

"No, I didn't know that," Mizuno put down the package. "You mean that you're his guarantee?"

"He doesn't own anything else." Chekov gestured expansively at the stack of gifts. "And he has to spend all his money on this sort of thing."

"Well..." Mizuno shrugged, clearly not willing to admit any flaws in his latest materials delivery scheme. "He does good work, so you don't have to worry."

"Ah, but what if he wishes to take a trip?" Chekov pointed out. "He wouldn't be able to take his guarantee along, would he?"

"Oh, I see." Mizuno nodded slowly. "Hmmm. That would a less than optimum situation for you."

"A financial institution would ask a lot of questions... require a lot more paper work than he would probably want to deal with," Mizuno replied, his tone making it clear that Intelligence would not favor stretching their carefully contrived cover for Spock that far. "But if he wanted to get a personal loan from one of his acquaintances... Maybe Zasat. She's got money and seems to be pretty fond of him."

As the ensign had, Mizuno burst into laughter at the picture of the Vulcan and the overbearing Romulan together.

But it was already too late. "Pavel, where's my ale? You'd better not be in there chattering to that grocery boy."

"I'll be there in a moment," Chekov called back, hastily grabbing a tray with a bottle and glass. He mouthed silently at the Intelligence agent, "Help."

"Don't worry, kid." Mizuno cheerfully patted the ensign's face. "The three of you make a cute couple."

"Very funny," Chekov said unappreciatively, crossing to the kitchen door and pushing it open with his back.

"We'll have our meal outside in the courtyard while you finish your work in here," the Vulcan informed him, obviously trying to pre-empt any comment from Zasat.

"Yes, sir, of course. I will arrange things immediately," Chekov said, pouring two glasses of ale. "Sir, there was a special delivery from the grocer. Ol.. mmm.. old something gifts for your customers."

"Ah, yes. Oldone gifts." The Vulcan nodded. "A tradition from the region where I was born. Very thoughtful. I will include a generous gratuity with my payment."

Chekov blinked at the hand Spock held out blankly for a moment. "The receipt. Oh, no, I forgot to get the receipt you to sign."

"Pavel," Zasat stopped him before he could dash back to the kitchen. "Unless absent-mindedness is contagious, the grocer's boy hasn't gone anywhere without getting payment for his delivery."

When she beckoned him over, Chekov realized that he had not yet given her the drink he'd poured.

"Pavel," she asked, as he quickly corrected this situation, "Is your head still connected to your shoulders?"

"No, sir," Chekov tried to explain yet again. "It's not a delivery. It's a gift."

"A what?" The guard at Deputy Garrison Commander Tav's door seemed to be making a special effort to be obtuse.

"A gift." Chekov gritted his teeth. Early in the course of delivering the packages, it had become overly apparent to the ensign that not everyone knew as much about this obscure custom as Mr. Spock and Ryo Mizuno. Among paranoid Romulans, it was definitely not more blessed to give than to receive. "My master sends this to the Commander to thank him for his patronage."

The Romulan tapped the pad in front of him stubbornly. "We're scheduled to receive no delivery from Vahtik."

Something inside Chekov was on the verge of snapping. He was hot, tired, and covered in dust from the street. He'd been through this process before with every other dwelling in the entire settlement. Enough work to fill two days was waiting for him at his and Spock's dwelling that needed to be completed before sundown. And tomorrow it would all start over again.

"It's not a damned delivery," Chekov said, a good deal more loudly and less carefully than he should have. "It's a damned gift."

The guard squinted at him dangerously. "Better watch your mouth, boy," he warned, rising.

The possibility of further debate was cut off when the guard seized Chekov's shoulder and propelled him towards Tav's office.

Tav was looking up from his paperwork -- apparently already disturbed by the uproar. "Yes?"

"Vahtik's boy is trying to make an unscheduled delivery," the guard reported, still holding the ensign up by his shoulder.

"It is not a delivery as such," Chekov explained, wriggling out from under his grasp in as inoffensive a manner as he could muster. "It is a gift."

Chekov felt his mouth tighten. He was in no mood for Tav's word games. "Vahtik sends you a gift."

"Oh, really?" A grin touched the corners of the Romulan's mouth. He gave the ensign a long evaluative look. "What a pretty present."

Again the Romulan was purposefully misunderstanding his words, making it seem as if he understood Chekov not the package he was holding to be the gift.

"And I'll lay odds that it's tasty as well," Tav said, running a teasing finger down Chekov's cheek.

The ensign ducked out from under his touch and shoved the package into the Romulan officer's midsection. "Here."

The Romulan allowed a silence long enough to let the inequality of their relative positions settle in the ensign's brain.

"But a little on the tart side, I see," Tav said as a mild reprimand. "Very well, tell your master I thank him for the box."

The Romulan handed the package to his guard, who looked at it blankly for a moment then tossed it onto a table where it would no doubt be picked up by a servant as Mizuno intended.

Tav stepped forward and patted Chekov's cheek patronizingly. "I may still chose to claim the gift later," he whispered.

"Damn," Chekov swore softly as the waring bells for curfew began to toll in the distance. "Not yet."

Spock checked the water clock on the mantle over the fireplace. "The accuracy of that device leaves something to be desired," he commented.

"Yes, it needs to be reset." Chekov put aside the cloth he was polishing with and hurried to fill the line of lamps sitting on the hearth. "I'll do it tomorrow after I...."

The ensign stopped at the thought of the laundry that needed to be washed, the dishes that needed to be cleaned, the delayed deliveries that need to be made, the errands that needed to be run... "Sir, I'm so very behind because of delivering those gifts today... Just for this one night, couldn't I...?"

Spock shook his head as he carefully replaced the cover of the tiny piece of machinery he was examining. "Out of the question."

"I am not helpless," the Vulcan interrupted firmly as he rose and took the set of keys off their hook on the wall.

Chekov blew out a long breath. A large part of the real reason why he always dreaded this time of day was not because the curfew prevented him from doing more work but because he so hated being locked up in that tiny, windowless, airless room all night. "But, surely, just another hour..."

Spock shook his head. "Agricultural Director Zasat has stated she intends to call this evening."

"I'm sorry, sir. It's just that... that..." The weight of this entire unhappy world seemed to settle on the ensign's shoulders. "I am very tired."

"All the more reason why you should observe the curfew," Spock replied, crossing to unlock the door to his cell.

The servants' quarters for this dwelling was a small room in the middle of the living area. None of its four walls touched or connected with any of the room's walls. Presumably this was to keep the servants contained therein from knocking holes through to the outside. Chekov knew that servants' quarters in other houses nearby had tunnels underneath them or cleverly disguised escape hatches out the roof. His room was depressingly secure. It contained only an ancient and unspeakably lumpy bunk and primitive sanitary facilities.

The Vulcan waited outside, allowing light from the apartment to illuminate the dark cell while the ensign quickly washed his face and hands in the basin. Chekov hung his tattered garments and sandals on the pegs provided for them, then crawled under the sheets that should have been washed at least a week ago.

"Sir," he called, stopping the Vulcan before the door closed. "About the dishes..."

"Should that be the case, I doubt this will be the first time that Director Zasat drinks from a bottle," Spock replied dryly.

"Sir." Chekov stopped the Vulcan from closing the door again. "It is just that I... I am...." Words failed the ensign. There was no adequate way to express how unequal he felt to continuing the task that faced him. In preparing for this mission, he had been readied for the danger and the hard work, but nothing warned him of the soul-killing hardships of being treated as a non-person day in and day out -- always being watched and controlled, never being able to express an unsanctioned opinion or emotion, or, worst of all, being treated, as Tav had done today, as if he were a mere plaything available for the amusement of whoever cared to grab.

"I am aware of the challenges you face," the Vulcan said with uncanny perceptiveness. "And I am not displeased with your efforts. Be assured of that."

"Yes, sir." Chekov sighed and felt guilty for having wished to complain. He was by no means alone in this ordeal. "Thank you, sir."

The feeling of unity, unfortunately, faded somewhat as the key scraped in the closing lock, creating a clear delineation of the difference in playing the role of servant versus the role of master.

The ensign had gotten into the habit of expecting company in the house at lunch time. Today was no exception. The identity of the guest was a bit of a shock, though.

"You're very lucky, Vahtik," Tav commented as Chekov placed a copper-colored flask of hot m`aytak on the low table before him.

"In what respect?" Spock indicated with a slight movement of his finger that the ensign should offer his guest the bowl of saz'sa chips as well.

Chekov's hand tightened on the bowl of pastries. He took a deep breath and forced himself to keep his expression neutral as Spock answered, "Pavel serves me adequately."

"Oh, more than adequately." Chekov avoided the Romulan's eyes as he turned back towards him. He could tell from the man's tone that Tav smiled as he said this. "Much more than adequately. Carefully... Eagerly... Lovingly, even."

The last was a deliberate taunt. Chekov felt burning warmth spread down the tight line of his jaw as he focused on Spock's elegantly long fingers settling on a saz'sa chip.

"It is an exquisite pleasure to be served by someone who loves you." The Romulan held out his hand for the chips, making it difficult for Chekov to simply sit the bowl down in front of him as he had done with the drink. "Haven't you found this to be true, Vahtik?"

The ensign tried to offer the bowl to the Romulan and then move away quickly, but Tav grasped him by the wrist. "You do love your master, don't you, boy?"

"He treats me fairly," Chekov answered in what he hoped was a credible imitation of his superior's cool manner.

"Therefore you love him, correct?" Tav only tightened his grip in response to the ensign's attempt to pull free. "And because you think I treat you unfairly, you hate me."

"Yes," Chekov answered -- simultaneous with Spock's clearing of his throat in order to warn him not to do so.

"It's all right, Vahtik." Tav released the ensign's wrist as Chekov quickly lowered his eyes to the floor. "I don't mind his honesty... However, I would like to be addressed in a more respectful manner."

The silence after this request stretched on long enough for Chekov to become very aware of the sound of his own shortened breaths. He closed his lips tightly against the apology he knew he obligated to offer.

Chekov glanced a silent appeal to Mr. Spock. The Vulcan denied his request with a barely perceptible nod.

"Pl.. ple.." Chekov had to stop and clear his throat. "Please-pardon-my-disrespect-Master-Tav," he said, spitting the bitter words out as quickly as possible.

"One troubling aspect of your boy's remarkable obedience and docility is that it seems to be directed towards you exclusively." Tav tapped the table in front of him, directing the ensign to place the bowl there. "When you are not present, he is as sullen and openly rude as any servant I have had the displeasure to meet."

Chekov wished he could ram the bowl down the Romulan's lying throat, instead he placed it on the low table a little more audibly than was entirely necessary.

"That's very disturbing," Spock said in a voice that instantly turned the ensign's anger to shame.

"How often do you beat him?" Tav asked with a casual bluntness that momentarily froze both the Enterprise officers.

"It is when your boy is so undisciplined that he becomes a nuisance to the community." Tav retorted, then snapped and pointed to the tray of finger towels.

"Deputy Garrison Commander Tav," Spock began as Chekov reluctantly fetched the tray, "I say this not to excuse any inappropriate behavior of which Pavel may be guilty, but as an explanation. We are both new to this area. My servant is accustomed to my expectations and modes of interaction. When he becomes equally familiar with your expectations..."

"If you're afraid to punish him, he's going to wind up in the stockade," Tav interrupted. "And I assure you he won't be coddled there."

"It's not a matter of my being afraid..." Spock began a tiny edge creeping into his voice.

"Yes, I know what you're going to say," Tav broke in as he selected a towel from the ensign's tray. "Any act of leniency inspires such affection in them. You've got this one so tame he'd happily crawl into bed with you." The Romulan reached out and patted Chekov's burning cheeks. "Isn't that right, boy? You'd gratefully roll over and..."

"How dare you," the ensign said from between clenched teeth. "How dare you suggest that..."

The Vulcan's voiced seemed to reverberate off the walls. The ensign flinched at the force of it. When he realized he was staring at his superior in disbelief, he quickly lowered his eyes the way a proper servant would. As the silence stretched painfully on and on, he bit his lip, torn between a desire to kill the Romulan and a desire to kill himself for being tricked into slipping in his role of submissive underling. Such an open display of aggressiveness would be wildly out of character for any of the dispirited natives he's met thus far. His outburst was more than enough to arouse the suspicions of the already too attentive Commander Tav.

"Have you now regained sufficient self control to listen to my commands?" Spock asked.

"Yes, sir," Chekov answered, sick with the thought that his emotionalism may have just seriously endangered their mission.

"Yes, sir." The Romulan was expectantly silent as the ensign knelt and returned the small rolls of finger towels to their container.

The ensign realized that Tav was expecting Spock to beat him. Any Romulan would without hesitation. Would Spock? Of course, he'll have to, the ensign assured himself. To do otherwise would be inconsistent with the role he had assumed.

Chekov swallowed hard. He wasn't very happy with the idea of being beaten at all. He definitely did not want to be punished in front of Tav. There didn't seem to be any escaping it, though. It was the penalty he had to pay for losing his temper and forgetting his duties.

He replaced the tray, then turned back to his superior with his hands folded behind him and his head humbly bowed, ready to submit to the inevitable.

Chekov drew in a long breath and tried not to think about what "second" was going to be as he turned to the Romulan.

"Please forgive my shocking misconduct, Master Tav," he said, mustering all the humility he could bring to bear. "And I beg you not blame my master for my failure to conduct myself properly. The fault is mine, not his."

"A master is always ultimately responsible for the conduct of his slave, Pavel," Tav replied in a nauseatingly patronizing tone.

Chekov hung his head miserably. "I am a disgrace to my master's tutelage," he said sincerely.

Tav smiled. "See, Vahtik, your boy apologizes quite prettily when he's properly motivated to do so."

"You are to report to your room," Spock continued, addressing the ensign and ignoring the Romulan's comment, "and confine yourself there. I will deal with you later."

"Yes, sir," he replied gratefully and quickly made his way to the central cubicle hoping to reach its sanctuary before anything was said that would cause a reversal of this reprieve.

"How will you punish him, Vahtik?" he overheard Tav ask before he was out of earshot.

"You take an inordinate interest in my servant, Deputy Garrison Commander," was Spock's cool reply.

The sound of the Romulan's laugh gave Chekov an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. "He is in some ways an inordinately interesting slave."

Mizuno grinned as he parked his delivery trolley. "Is there a walkway under all that?"

"Theoretically," the ensign responded, continuing to battle the accumulated layers of dust with the rather inadequate broom.

The mere thought of meat made dormant tastebuds in the ensign's mouth water mournfully. "Is this a trick question?"

"We talked Kisvath into letting us cook a bithan -- it tastes a little like goat -- in the storage shed behind the shop. We should be all right unless the wind changes and someone complains."

Mizuno grinned and patted him on the shoulder. "I can always spot the meat lovers. Arrange to drop by about an hour before curfew and I'll fix you up."

"An hour before curfew?" Chekov's tastebuds gave a collective cry of despair. "I'm afraid that won't be possible."

"Uhm..." The ensign retrieved his broom. "My curfew has temporarily been moved forward a little," he admitted, trying to make it sound unremarkable.

Mizuno rolled his eyes and gestured Chekov forward again. "Everything is significant to me, Ensign," he said in a low, superior officer voice.

"So you were a bad boy?" Mizuno returned easily to normal volume and the native tongue.

"Well, don't let it happen again." Mizuno shook a warning finger at him. "And I do mean that as officially as possible. Don't do that again."

Mizuno shook his head. "That's got to be really inconvenient for you with the big day coming up."

Mizuno laughed disbelieveingly. "Don't tell me you don't know Zasat is planning a party."

"Yes and from what you told me and the sorts of foods she's ordering, it looks like she thinks it's going to be a betrothal party."

Mizuno's attention was caught by someone coming down the street. "Gotta go." He pushed his delivery trolley out into the road. "Hey, save me a piece of wedding cake."

Chekov shook his head. Perhaps the whole thing was a joke just to see how gullible he was. Surely Spock would have told him, but then again, in the past few days they'd both been extremely busy. Things were a little strained between them since the incident with Tav -- well, strained on Chekov's part, at least. He hated the extra hour of curfew. He didn't see why he had to actually be punished for what he'd done -- but that was part of the whole role playing thing. If you said you were going to do something you had to actually do it. It only took one person catching you not following through to rouse suspicions.

Feeling suspicious, Chekov went inside. Surely Spock would have told him... He couldn't possibly be considering... On impulse the ensign crossed into the shop.

"No, sir." The ensign folded his hands behind his back and cast about for a way to broach the topic. "I merely wanted to inquire... You don't intend to marry that woman, do you, sir?"

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "That could be viewed as an impertinent question."

Spock turned back to his work. "I have been giving her proposal some consideration."

Spock frowned. "You are once more straying outside the boundaries of conversation appropriate for someone of your station."

Chekov closed his mouth and tried to think of objections that would be within his role to state.

"I should think you would be in favor of the match," the Vulcan said after watching him go through several moments of fruitless effort. Spock took a wooden box off the shelf above him, opened it and held it out for the ensign to see. "This is Zasat's engagement gift. If I accept it, you will no longer be my most valuable possession. "

Spock cut this inappropriate outburst off by clearing his throat. "That would make it possible for you to accompany me on the journey I must take to my home planet to consult with my guardians about the acceptability of the match."

The plan began to become clear to the ensign. An engagement would get them out of their financial difficulties and if they left the planet soon enough, Spock could probably avoid personal difficulties.

"Zasat is planning a social gathering next week," the Vulcan continued. "She would like to use the occasion to make a public announcement of our engagement. She is awaiting my consent." Spock paused, then added dryly. "I assume I have yours?"

"Oh, yes, sir." The ensign grinned. "Congratulations. And we'll be leaving soon after that?"

Their escape -- as well as their method of arrival -- was an Orion trader who made a regular run in the vicinity of this planet.

"I am still considering the matter," Spock warned. "Therefore your congratulations are somewhat premature. I will inform you when I come to a decision -- as I have intended to from the first."

Chekov turned to go then turned back when he got a good look at what his superior was working on. "You're not going to finish that, are you?"

"I am fully aware of the component's intended use," Spock interrupted. "It is integral to the functioning of the entire mechanism."

"Should it malfunction," the Vulcan continued, giving particular emphasis to that word, "the internal workings of the mechanism could quite possibly be irreparably damaged, putting the project months or even years behind schedule. The situation would be much worse than if this device had never been completed at all."

"Oh," Chekov said, the lights slowly coming on in his brain as he realized this scenario was exactly what the Science Officer intended to bring about. "Good... I mean, yes, sir."

"You've not been here in a while." Tav said, not bothering to look up from the work he was in the midst of signing.

"No, sir." The ensign was a great deal less than thrilled to be standing in the Deputy Commander's office once more. "No deliveries have been required."

"I know. I had to break the locking mechanism on one of my own storage units in order to have the pleasure of your company." The Romulan smiled as if this were a very clever joke. "What, are you not glad to see me as well?"

"Perhaps you're still smarting from the beating you received as a result of our last encounter?"

Chekov sighed, knowing his answer was not going to please the Romulan. "My curfew was moved forward an hour and I have been assigned extra duties."

"That's awfully light," Tav said, leaning back in his chair. "After all you nearly attacked me. I'm almost insulted that you didn't receive any more of a punishment than that."

"Which makes it all the more insulting," Tav pointed out, then picked up his pen again. "No matter. You'll learn to expect different treatment when you belong to me."

"Oh, yes," the Romulan continued matter-of-factly. "Once you come into my possession, a strap will be applied to that tempting young backside of yours with a regularity that you no doubt will at first find astonishing."

"No." Chekov took an involuntarily half-step backwards. "No. That is impossible."

"And when you are mine," the Romulan warned mildly, "such defiance will send to you to bed not only early but with tears in those enchanting brown eyes as well."

"No." The ensign shook his head adamantly. "You don't understand. It's not possible. I'm not available. Vahtik is not interested in... selling me."

Tav shrugged as he went back to his work. "I'll make it hard for him if he doesn't."

Chekov was dumbstruck. The sickening realization came over him that in his position as Deputy Garrison Commander, Tav had the potential to wreak a great deal of havoc with his and Spock's precarious situation.

"But, sir," he said, switching tactics. "Why me? I'm nothing. I'm no one for you to trouble yourself with. Should my master refuse your offer to purchase me, I'm not worth fighting for. I'm not worth any problems I might cause between two such important men."

Tav folded his hands patiently. "A charming display of humility," he complimented the ensign. "And I suppose I am to believe it is in earnest?"

"I am completely in earnest, sir," Chekov assured him. "In the place I come from, there are dozens like me. There is nothing special about me at all."

"No, sir." Chekov shook his head. "He won't sell me. You don't know the kind of man he is. If he decides not to do something, he won't do it, no matter what the consequences."

The ensign couldn't read Tav's expression. He began to be afraid the Romulan might have interpreted the last as a challenge.

"Please, sir," he pleaded. "I'd rather die than for there to be trouble for him because of me."

Chekov closed his eyes and released a long breath. He wondered if the Romulan had staged this charade just to wrest this admission from him. "Yes, sir."

Tav considered this for a moment, then picked up his pen. "It's only because he spoils you and you fear I will not."

"Of course you're right," the Romulan continued as if the ensign hadn't spoken. "I intend to be very strict with you... Although I do find your pretty speeches most amusing."

Chekov drew in a deep breath and tried to keep in mind the proper behavior for someone in his role. "Sir..."

"You think that you are a good servant now," Tav said, "but you are mistaken. You will be surprised at the depths of devotion proper discipline will arouse in you... You will be surprised and grateful, profoundly grateful." The Romulan smiled. "Boys like you always are."

A white hot flash of anger burned through the ensign as he realized that Tav made this threat.. this promise out of experience, not fantasy. Other "boys" before him had been victim to the same bullying and humiliation... and worse. The injustice of it all nearly choked Chekov.

"You are an utterly unprincipled, uncivilized..." The words slipped past his lips before he could stop them.

The Romulan only continued to smile. "Please, go on. There's no point in stopping now."

Tav was right of course. The first half of his outburst was already enough to hang him.

"...stinking son of a Romulan whore," The ensign enjoyed saying the words while he could. "Now, you can beat me if you wish, but you will never own me."

Spock and Zasat were having a drink in the sitting room when Chekov and his escort burst into the room.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Vulcan asked as the Romulan guardsman jerked the ensign forward by the shoulder of his garment.

"Sir," Chekov began before Tav's guard could. "I've... I've... I have done something terrible."

"I... I..." Chekov found he couldn't meet his superior's eyes. "I had a disagreement Deputy Garrison Commander Tav and called him a... That is to say, I said something ill-advised."

"He called him a stinking son of a Romulan whore," the guardsman supplied laconically.

Zasat snorted into her ale. "Considering the potential truthfulness of that statement, I'd say it was very ill-advised."

"No further statement is required from you at this time, Pavel," the Vulcan interrupted.

"Very well." Spock folded his arms. "Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention, Guardsman. Please convey my deepest apologies to your commander and assure him that this matter will be dealt with swiftly and decisively."

Chekov winced at the sound of that "swiftly and decisively" part, but Tav's guard was far less impressed.

The ensign had hoped that the guardsman would not be so particular in carrying out that part of his orders. After all, the mere promise of a punishment had been sufficient for Tav himself.

"That won't be necessary," Spock said, reaching for Chekov's arm. "I can assure..."

The guard pulled the ensign back. "Either I see you beat him or I'm to take him to the stockade for insulting a Romulan Officer."

"I appreciate the graveness of his offence," Spock said, with icy politeness. "However, how I choose to discipline my servant is no concern of...."

"Oh, don't make a speech, Vahtik," Zasat interrupted. "Tav's within his rights. Just give the little rascal the beating he deserves and let that be an end to it."

Chekov squirmed uncomfortably in the Romulan's grasp as his superior silently weighed the situation. The set of the Vulcan's jaw clearly indicated how little he liked either option open to him.

"Oh, don't be so stubborn," Zasat advised. "No need to make a State case out of thing like this."

When Spock didn't reply, she impatiently blew a breath out her nose and fished a long stick out of the kindling box.

"Here," she said, rising and reaching for the ensign. "If you're too nice, I'll do it for you. Come on, Pavel."

Spock stopped her hand before it reached Chekov's arm. "That won't be necessary," he said, taking the stick as well. Giving the guardsman a look that pinned him in place, the Vulcan gestured curtly to the ensign. "Come with me."

Chekov was happy that the guard let go of him and made no move to follow, but got a bad feeling about the way his superior did not discard the stick as he led the way to the servants' quarters.

"Across the foot of the bed, please," the Vulcan instructed, holding the door of the chamber open.

The ensign blinked at him blankly for a moment before the horrible realization that Spock was actually going to go through with this set in. Even worse, there was nothing Chekov could do to prevent or even object to the punishment that would have any effect other than making things worse for himself.

He shot a pleading look at his superior, but there was absolutely no hope for compromise in the Vulcan's aspect.

Realizing that he was still being watched by Zasat and the guardsman, Chekov lowered his eyes, closed his mouth and swallowed hard. Throat tight and cheeks flaming, he entered the tiny chamber ahead of his superior and knelt beside the rickety bunk.

This, he knew, stretching out across the rough sheet, had to be the low point of his entire career, if not of his entire life. How would he ever be able to face Spock again after this?

'I'll have to transfer,' he thought, burying his face in the mattress as he listened to the sound of his superior's footsteps approach the bed. He couldn't imagine ever sitting comfortably across a briefing room table from a man who had beaten him in such a humiliating manner. Considering the Vulcan's strength, sitting comfortably anywhere might be problematic for some time to come.

The ensign squeezed his eyes closed and braced himself against the mattress as he felt the long tail of his shirt lifted and a cool hand placed against the bare skin of his back just above the waistband of his trousers.

The ensign gasped as the stick came down on the mattress beside him with a loud whap.

Louder, please, Spock's mental voice requested in the seconds before the stick came down again missing the ensign by a country mile.

"Aaaah!" Chekov yelped obligingly, relieved beyond the power of mere words to express.

"How many times..." the Vulcan said, punctuating the last word with another stroke from the stick.

Although getting a simulated beating was nearly as humiliating as the real thing, Chekov took a certain amount of grim pleasure in the thought of how Spock was managing to make a fool of that son of bitch Tav...

Ensign. The Vulcan's mental voice sternly interrupted as the ensign's musings turned to colorful descriptors of the Romulan's various physical and mental failings. There is to be no repeat of this incident. Do you understand?

I suggest you continue to make appropriate noises until our guests depart, Spock suggested silently, before lifting his hand off the ensign's back, thus breaking contact.

"You will remain in this room the rest of the afternoon and contemplate your misbehavior," the Vulcan ordered, keeping his voice at a level that would be clearly audible to the listeners outside the room.

Stepping just beyond the open door, the Vulcan took the stick very deliberately in his hands and broke it in two. His eyes were still on the ensign, but the show was clearly for his other audience.

"There will be no repetition of this incident," he repeated for the benefit of all his listeners.

Chekov paused before the doorway to Zasat's study and sighed in defeat. He'd been trying to avoid attracting her attention for several minutes now. He continued to marvel at her unerring knack for being present when he was in the midst of some incompetence. "I am looking for the linen closet."

"Really?" Zasat asked unhelpfully. "You mean my servants haven't asked you to act as master chef yet?"

Zasat's servants were as picky as she was. They seemed to regard him as a nuisance rather than as a welcome pair of extra hands to deal with the preparations for tomorrow's engagement party. The ensign had some suspicion that there actually was no linen closet. It was merely an effective temporary measure to keep him out of their hair.

"Yes." Chekov still had a hard time picturing the two of them together and keeping a straight face at the same time. "If you'll excuse me..."

"Leaving so soon?" A tone that he had learned indicated she was teasing entered the Romulan's voice. "Why, I was just looking over my guest list. It looks as though I've forgotten to send Tav an invitation. Wouldn't you like to run it over there for me?"

Chekov smiled, but it was far too soon after his last disastrous encounter with the Deputy Commander for the jibe to be even remotely funny.

"Vahtik is playing a dangerous game," she said seriously. "Tav is too vengeful to offend lightly. Your master should have beaten you for insulting him."

"Tav doesn't," she informed him. "He had the guardsman transferred to duty on a mining camp as punishment for not following his orders and actually seeing the beating. He seems to think Vahtik might have tricked the man in to believing you were beaten when you weren't."

The ensign delayed a half-second too long before protesting, "But that is preposterous."

"I don't know. I'm beginning to have a little doubt myself. After all, you were up and whistling the next day," she said, her beady black eyes boring into him. "I've never seen a slave recover from a beating so quickly and completely."

Chekov groaned inwardly. If he ever made it back to the Federation, he'd have to be sure to mention that little item to the agents training the next person they sent in. They'd have to be sure not to forget to beat the unlucky soul soundly so he'd know how to fake it if necessary.

"That's what I'm wondering. Does he want to offend Tav?" She paused significantly. "Or is there something going on between the two of you?"

The ensign forced himself to count to ten, giving himself a good chance to consider his answer before speaking. "Vahtik is a man of principle."

"Well..." Zasat took at least as long a time to consider Chekov's answer as it had taken him to frame it. "I suppose that's a good characteristic in a husband too."

Zasat barely had time to rouse from her chair and mutter, "Now who could that be?" before a red-faced servant rushed into the room.

Chekov might have beat Zasat to the door had she not put a restraining hand on his arm as she rose. As it was, both of them arrived in the vestibule before Spock.

The leader of the team of six officers in dark Security division uniforms ignored her. "Vahtik of Orzono?"

"Yes?" The Vulcan appeared behind them, looking altogether too calm and collected.

"You're to be questioned. The quality of some work you are doing has been challenged."

"Indeed?" The Vulcan took a moment to examine the uniforms of the escort. "Then would that not be a civil matter?"

"It would be," the leader acknowledged, "if the work in question wasn't of a sensitive nature."

"So it is the work I am doing for Security Director Gazt that is in question?" Spock speculated as Chekov's heart nearly stopped beating.

"On the basis of recorded conversations between him and his servant," the leader replied, then turned to Spock. "You need to explain why you sounded so confident that the device would fail, Vahtik. We'd also like to know more about this trip you intend to take. Did you know your intended is planning a trip, Zasat? Seems strange for a man who's about to get engaged to be so eager to get off the planet."

Chekov watched in horror as Zasat shot Spock a look that said traitor as clearly as if she spoken the word. The ensign tried to remember what incriminating conversation must have been overheard. He knew Spock would have never said anything to jeopardize the mission. It must have been the day Gazt came to the shop. All his inappropriate comments must have tipped Security off.

"That will be for an adjudicator to decide," the officer replied, gesturing Spock forward.

"The district magistrate holds hearings for this area three days from now," the officer said. "Your fiance will be charged or released by then. Between the two of us, though, Agricultural Director, I'd cancel the party if I were in your shoes."

Spock put a hand on Zasat's shoulder, forestalling the violent reply swelling up from within the woman's florid features. "The sooner I go, the sooner this matter is dealt with."

Chekov's brain was racing. What could he do to prevent this? What could he have done to cause this? How could he get word to Ryo Mizuno? Was there anything the Intelligence operatives could do to save Spock? Would the shop be searched? Would the special equipment stored there elude detection?

Another of the Security officers moved forward and ran a scanner over Spock. Apparently finding nothing untoward, he nodded to his superior who in turn nodded to Zasat.

Spock was surrounded by black clad officers but not restrained in any way. Chekov wondered if this would be the last time he'd see the Vulcan alive as his superior calmly turned with his escort to leave.

"Oh." The leader turned back just before exiting. "Which one is Vahtik's servant?"

Chekov's mouth opened, but no words came out. However, since Zasat's servants parted like the Red Sea in a double line pointing to him, any reply from the ensign was rendered redundant.

"What is the purpose of questioning my servant?" Spock objected as the officers laid hands on the ensign. "He will not be allowed to give evidence either for or against me in front of the adjudicator."

The Security officers didn't pause. Although it seemed that a Romulan suspected of sabotage could be trusted to walk unfettered through the streets, the same confidence was not placed in slaves. Chekov's hands were quickly bound and a lead was threaded through the collar around his neck.

"Pavel," Spock warned when the ensign instinctively tried to resist. He then turned to the Security Officer. "Unless my servant is to be questioned as well, I prefer he remain here while I am in custody."

"Perhaps that is the way things are handled on Orzono, Vahtik," the leader replied condescendingly, "but it's not how we do things here. Your boy along with all your other possessions will be held by the person making the accusation against you until such a time as you are cleared by the adjudicator."

"So, he will go to Security Director Gazt?" Spock asked, voicing those terrible words almost casually.

"No." The leader gestured to the two officers who jerked Chekov forward. "The complaint against you was filed by Deputy Garrison Commander Tav."

Chekov knew Tav had entered the room from the sound of his boots on the stone floor.

The guard who was re-coding the information on his id collar stepped back. "Sir."

Tav did not respond. He was content to silently assess the condition of his new possession.

Chekov looked away as the Romulan crossed in front of him. He had to lift his head, though, when Tav pulled the collar with two fingers.

Chekov tried to ignore the warmth of the Romulan's fingertips that touched his throat. "An identification device."

"My name, my identification number, and my occupational code," the ensign replied, omitting the item he knew the Romulan wanted to hear.

"The Romulan who owns you, correct?" When the ensign again refused to answer, Tav gave the collar a sharp jerk. "Correct?"

Tav smiled and let the collar drop. "And what Romulan name appears on your identification device now?" he asked, turning to walk to his desk.

"Yes," Chekov replied, wishing very hard that either he or the Romulan was dead right now.

"Then that means that I own you, doesn't it?" Tav said, as if the conclusion came as a complete surprise to him.

"But I thought you told me that would never happen," Tav said. "Yes, I remember that quite clearly. It was in this very office. You were quite emphatic about it. I believe you said something to the effect that I could beat you but I'd never own you. That's right, isn't it?"

"Yes, you were," Tav agreed. "You were very wrong about the single most important aspect of a slave's life. Weren't you?"

"I don't think I'd want to be in your place right now," the Romulan commented. "You've been rather unpleasant to me, haven't you? I can think of at least two beatings I owe you that Vahtik failed to administer."

"He won't leave me here," Chekov said, half to himself. "He'll find some way to get me back."

"Perhaps he will, perhaps he won't," Tav replied easily. "That's in the future." The Romulan crossed to him. "For now, you're mine," he said, patting the ensign on his shoulder as if to comfort him. "There's nothing Vahtik can do for the next three days. You do understand that, don't you?"

"They could prove to be three very long and difficult days for you," Tav warned gently, his hand still on the ensign's back. "Much depends on your attitude. Now, given the new and potentially unpleasant circumstances you find yourself in, how do you plan to behave?"

"Oh, the poor creature!" Tav exclaimed, ruffling the ensign's hair as his guards laughed. "He's in complete despair, isn't he? Doesn't know what he's going to do. What a pathetic spectacle. It brings me to the verge of tears." He lifted the ensign's chin. "What? No pretty speech prepared to amuse me?"

"Master," the Romulan corrected, forcing the ensign's face back towards him. "That's one little insolence that, unlike Vahtik, I will not permit. You will always address me as master. Do you understand?"

Tav pushed the ensign's chin up to an uncomfortable angle. "Yes, master," he prompted.

Chekov swallowed. Three days. He had to survive this for three unendurably long days... at the very least.

The rest wouldn't come out. The thought that those three long days would include three equally long nights choked him into silence.

Tav released him and watched as the ensign's head dropped forward in humiliation and defeat. "There, there," he said, reaching out to stroke his captive's hair in a parody of sympathy. "It will become easier with practice. It will all become easier with practice."

Doubting very much that this would prove to be true, Chekov ducked out from under the Romulan's grasp.

Tav said nothing, remaining frozen for a moment as if giving the ensign a chance to relent and move back into position. When this didn't happen, the Romulan folded both hands behind his back.

"If your brain is working the way a good servant's should -- and I am not convinced that it does work that way at this time," he said in a lecturing tone, "You should be wondering, 'What does my new master want from me? What does he expect?'"

Chekov looked at him through narrowed eyes, having a firm opinion of what he assumed Tav wanted and wondering if the Romulan would be so bold as to speak such a thing aloud.

Tav smiled. "Being the honest person I am, I will tell you. It is very simple, really. All I expect from you is submission."

"Complete, unthinking submission..." the Romulan continued, savoring each word. Tav reached out to caress his captive's cheek. "...In all matters."

"Poor thing." Tav sighed and patiently folded his hands behind his back once more. "He's either in shock or too besotted with his old master to appreciate his new circumstances. We must see what we can do to bring him back to reality."

Chekov winced as a stick that doubled as a flyswatter came down on his shoulders. One aftereffect of having been beaten that he would have never bothered to consider had it never happened to him was how terribly tired it made you feel. As the initial adrenalin wore off, the soreness began to drain one's will. The ensign quickened his movements without thinking of rebelling. He scrubbed the watery reflection of himself in the stone tiles of an upstairs hallway of the Deputy Garrison Commander's residence and for the moment wished for nothing more extravagant than to be allowed to lie down for a while.

"Slower," his finicky guard commanded, as the flyswatter again slapped against the bare skin of the ensign's back.

Chekov sucked a sharp breath in through his teeth. The guard's present blows didn't hurt nearly as much as the welts from an hour before they reawakened.

The ensign's heartbeat quickened as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. As they drew closer, it became apparent that they were shod in native sandals rather than Romulan boots.

"Sir," Dave Thompson bowed slightly to the guardsman. "Take a break. The master has said that I'm to watch him."

This apparently cleared everything up for the guardsman, who without further comment relinquished his post.

"Here," Thompson said, handing the ensign a shirt as the Romulan's footsteps diminished down the stairs.

"Who is the visitor?" Chekov asked, sitting back on his heels and struggling into the garment.

"It's only Tav's brother." Thompson took out a cloth and began to polish the chair the guardsman had vacated. "He just doesn't want it to look like you`re giving him any problems. He'd lose face."

"Oh, yes," Chekov agreed ironically as he wrung out his scrub rag. "I suppose I might get into trouble if I don't."

Chekov took this use of his proper rank as a signal to indicate they were free to talk. "Why didn't you warn us?"

"Warn you? The whole planet's wired for sound. You and your partner were told that from the beginning. And knowing where he comes from..." Thompson added cruelly, "I think I can figure out which one of you screwed things up."

Guilt silenced the ensign and distracted him sufficiently for him to forget to point out that what Thompson should have warned them about was not that Tav was monitoring them, but that the Romulan was preparing to act on information he'd gathered.

"Yes," Tav was saying as he passed by. "The documents you want to see are in here."

The second set of boots paused near Chekov's head as Tav continued on into one of the rooms off the hall. The ensign kept his head down and tried to blend in with the furniture.

"Actually," the new voice said as Tav returned, "what I wanted to see is right here."

"Oh, my new acquisition?" Tav said with studied casualness as he tapped the ensign's forearm with his boot. "Stand up, Pavel."

Chekov struggled to his feet, clamping his lips closed against the complaints his aching back was sending him.

The ensign straightened, defying both the protests of his abused muscles and the Romulan's attempts to break his will.

Tav's brother was an older version of himself, a tall, thin, hawk-faced Romulan with lips that curled very naturally into a sneer. "You make a fool of yourself with this endless parade of boys, Tav," he observed.

His brother didn't confirm or deny the label. "How valid was the charge you brought against Vahtik?"

"So you framed him?" Liat said, quickly coming to the same conclusion as the ensign.

"Let us say," Tav replied, reaching out and directing Chekov's glare to a neutral point on the wall, "that if the repairman agrees to part with this beguiling creature, a higher quality recording may become available."

"He should." Tav tapped the ensign's chin. "This one's quite the little troublemaker. Vahtik is well rid of him."

"Even if that's true, he's not going to be happy about spending the night in the stockade."

"If he's the loyal citizen he claims to be, he should have nothing to hide and therefore no reason to resent being questioned," Tav replied, with the sort of formulation that seemed to make some kind of sense to Romulans.

"As long as she's waited for a betrothal party, it surely won't kill her to wait a few days more," Tav replied easily. "Now, if there's nothing else..?"

"I'll see myself out," Liat said, turning to go. He paused before heading down the steps. "Enjoy your new toy, Tav. Something tells me you're going to end up paying far more for it than you anticipate."

The Romulan smiled as his sibling's footsteps faded. "It is worth almost any amount of trouble to see Liat so consumed with envy." He turned his attention to the ensign. "And you. You're forgetting the rules of our little game. If you are given an order -- say, for instance, 'Stand up' -- then you are to acknowledge it."

"You see," Tav explained to Thompson as the ensign shouldered out of the shirt. "We're playing a learning game. Every time Pavel forgets to call me master, he has to forfeit an item of clothing. He's already lost this shirt once before."

"Looks like he doesn't have a lot left to lose," Thompson said, noting the only other thing the ensign was wearing was his trousers.

"Yes," the Romulan grinned. "Things are on the verge of becoming interesting... Oh, look, here's the guardsman come back from his break. You may return to your task, Pavel."

Chekov bent to retrieve his scrub rag before he caught himself. "Yes, master," he forced himself to acknowledge.

"You seem to be making progress with him, Master," Thompson said, suddenly the very picture of a fawning sycophant.

"Quite the contrary," Tav replied discontentedly. "I think I barely have his attention. Pavel has yet to grasp the seriousness of my intent."

"Perhaps you should threaten to send him to the stockade along with his master," Thompson suggested helpfully. "That might impress him."

Chekov's jaw dropped open in horror as he looked up at this man who was supposed to be an ally. What in the hell was Thompson thinking? The device Spock had been working on was not the only one at the Romulans' disposal. There was a chance that since he was accepted as a Romulan, Spock was being interrogated in a relatively civilized way that would allow him to conceal his true identity. If questioned, Chekov would be spared nothing. Their discovery as spies was almost assured.

"Oh, ho." Tav knelt down. "That certainly got a reaction from my brave little soldier. What's the matter, Pavel? Are you afraid of Security Director Gazt?"

Chekov swallowed hard and forced himself to focus on the tile underneath his rag. "My master and I are innocent. We have nothing to hide."

"Ah, but that's not the point, is it?" Tav reached out and turned the ensign's face towards him. "They're all true, you know. The stories, the rumors about what happens to naughty slaves who have to be sent to the stockade."

Chekov tried to suppress any tiny twitch of his face that might encourage Tav in this line of coercion.

"Gazt is always happy to have someone to test his gadgets on," the Romulan continued. "I think you might make an excellent subject for him. And I believe I did hear him comment one time that he thought there was something strange about you -- something odd about the way you spoke..." Tav paused and smiled. "I assure you he can be most... tenacious when his curiosity is aroused."

The ensign pressed his teeth together and wondered what demon had possessed Thompson to put such an idea in the Romulan's mind.

"My," Tav said, his fingers still resting on Chekov's throat, "but isn't your heart beating quickly?"

The ensign deliberately pulled himself out of the Romulan's grasp and turned to another unwashed tile.

"After even a short visit to the stockade, you'd be more than willing to do whatever it takes to avoid being sent back," Tav informed him. "I know. I've seen it happen often enough before."

Chekov went on with his work, resolved to live through whatever that came if for no other purpose than to see Thompson court martialled and hopefully hanged for this.

"Do you believe me, Pavel?" Tav abruptly took the ensign by the wrist. "Or must I still convince you of my seriousness?"

"Enough with games and coyness." Tav grasped the ensign's other wrist and pulled Chekov towards him. "You have a choice to make and I'll put it to you bluntly. You spend tonight in the stockade learning to be cooperative or in my bed being cooperative. Which is it to be?"

"Well," Thompson said as he entered the tiny herb pantry where they'd left the ensign tied, "you almost made it."

Chekov opened the one eye of his that would still open and spoke out of the side of his mouth that would move. "I didn't come close."

"To escaping, no," Thompson agreed as he untied the ensign's wrists from the hook on the wall they'd been fastened to. "To killing Tav, yes."

Chekov couldn't stop himself from sliding slowly down the wall. "I'm sorry I didn't," he said once he'd reached a more maintainable seated position.

"I'm amazed he let his guard down long enough for you to try," Thompson said, kneeling and putting a flagon of water to the ensign's lips. "I didn't think you were being that convincing."

Chekov winced, both at the pain in his badly split lip and the memory of what he'd had to do in the name of being "convincing."

"There," Tav had said as he shut the door behind him. "That was a fairly easy choice, wasn't it?"

The ensign had only stared at the bed in front of him. It seemed unnaturally large. There were wristlocks built into the headboard.

"You've led me on a merry chase." The Romulan approached him from behind. "But that's over now."

Chekov closed his eyes as Tav's hands settled on his bare shoulders. There had to be another way he could avoid jeopardizing his mission. There had to be another way.

Tav's warm fingers traced the lines of muscle running down the ensign's neck. "This is how I have imagined the two of us ever since the first day I saw you square your shoulders as boldly as a Romulan and dare to ask my guard for a drink of water," he whispered into his captive's ear.

Chekov bit his lip. As the Intelligence Agents had predicted, a lapse into an inappropriately confident manner had betrayed him -- but in a way none of them had anticipated.

"I must admit," Tav said, his lips brushing against the ensign's ear, "that the thrill of the chase has lent you a good deal of enchantment."

Tav didn't let him get far. He took the ensign by the shoulders. "Let's dispense with the melodrama, shall we?" The Romulan said, forcing Chekov around to face him. "As I said, you've made me pursue you, but the race is over and it's time for me to claim my reward."

When Tav leaned forward, the ensign took a defensive step and a half backwards. He would have gone further, but his leg met resistance. Looking back, he could see he'd run into the bed.

"Oh, come now," Tav scolded, taking advantage of the ensign's surprise to catch both Chekov's wrists and pull them into a forced embrace around the Romulan's hips. "It's not as though I'm going anywhere Vahtik hasn't already been a hundred times by now. And one Romulan's much the same as another to your kind, aren't they?"

Tav, like the average Romulan, was somewhat stronger than the average Human. Chekov empirically confirmed this already known fact as he struggled futilely against his captor's grip.

"You're forgetting our agreement," Tav reproved, jerking the ensign more tightly against him. "You promised to be co-operative. Or have you decided that you prefer a trip to the stockade?"

Chekov gradually ceased his resistance. He was trapped. There was no way out of this situation other than capitulation to Tav's demands. Damn Thompson! Damn himself, for that matter, for every thoughtless thing he'd done to fan the flames of the Romulan's lust.

"Better." Tav pressed the ensign's hands firmly on his hips before releasing them so that his own could grasp Chekov's waist.

The ensign closed his eyes, but did not resist as the Romulan's mouth found his. 'This is my punishment,' he thought to himself as Tav's tongue forced his lips open, 'for being so stupid. I have no one to blame for this but myself... and Dave Thompson.'

"Much better." Tav smiled as he allowed the ensign an opportunity to breathe. "I bet you're beginning to wonder why you put up such a fuss."

The Romulan was wrong. Chekov was resolving that he was going to do whatever it took to protect Mr. Spock and the mission and was trying not to worry about how humiliating and painful he was sure that "whatever" was going to be.

"Just one thing though," Tav murmured, nuzzling the soft skin underneath the ensign's left ear. "When I asked if you had decided to go to the stockade, you forgot to say, 'No, Master.'" The Romulan's hands slid down to the waistband of the ensign's trousers. "I'm afraid that means you owe me a forfeit."

Without considering what he was doing, Chekov automatically ducked out of the Romulan's grasp.

"Come now," Tav sighed impatiently. "I don't have all night for this sort of nonsense."

Chekov looked around him. A half-plan formed in his mind. He didn't pause to evaluate it or to wait for the second half to emerge. Instead he took two strategic steps backwards in the direction of a small table with writing implements on it.

"Does Vahtik encourage such foolishness in you?" the Romulan asked, putting his hands on his hips.

Keeping his eyes locked on Tav's, the ensign loosened the tie on the drawstring holding his pants up, then rested his elbows on the high table behind him in a manner he hoped the Romulan would find enticing.

Tav grinned. "Oh, I see," he said, moving forward. "Not tired of the chase yet, are you?"

Chekov dug his fingers into the grain of the table top as the Romulan's hands slid inside his trousers. He forced himself to remain motionless, however until Tav bent to kiss his way down his stomach. The ensign put his right hand on the Romulan's neck in effort to distract Tav from the fact that his other hand was picking up a lamp off the desk.

Sitting on the floor of the herb pantry several hours later, Chekov sighed for that brief moment of triumph. It had been rather fleeting. As soon as he pried open one of the few windows in Tav's bedroom, what seemed like a thousand alarms went off. Guards appeared out of nowhere to apprehend him. They had been quite vigorous in the belated defence of their fallen leader.

"Don't..." Chekov had to speak very slowly around his split lip. "..let them... take me..."

"To the stockade?" Thompson wiped blood off the ensign's face with business-like efficiency. "Too late for that. You struck a Romulan official. Here, open your mouth."

Thompson put something under his tongue. "Don't bite down on that. It's a zithochlorine tablet."

"Relatively harmless to Humans," Thompson explained quickly as he wiped off his fingers. "Acts like acid when comes in contact with Romulan skin. Gazt will interrogate you personally. Bite down on the tablet then. Spit it on him."

"...will kill him," Thompson finished for him, calmly shaking ointment out of a brown bottle onto a clean cloth.

Chekov was so surprised, he didn't even wince when the agent applied the stinging medicine to the abrasion under his eye. "But they.."

"...they'll execute you," Thompson confirmed readily. "But unless Tav is such a sado-masochist that being brained with a lamp really turns him on, he's going to insist you're executed anyway. Even if he doesn't, as soon as they question you and find out you're a spy, they're certainly going to execute you... and most of the rest of us."

"Hopefully," Thompson continued, dabbing burning ointment into the spilt in the ensign's lip, "before they execute you for Gazt's murder, they'll give you time to confess. Tell them that Tav put you up to it. Think of some reason why. It won't take much. They assume we all live to kill Romulans. The evidence of Tav's complicity is in the top drawer of the chest next to his bed."

"I've had Tav set up for this for a long time." Thompson nodded. "I was going to do it myself. When you came along, though, I saw it was a better opportunity for you."

Chekov only stared at Thompson as the agent dabbed ointment onto the bruises on his chest and arms.

"You're going to die, Ensign," Thompson informed him calmly. "Get used to the idea. You've screwed up. You're going to die. This way you take two of the biggest bastards on this planet with you instead of your partner and the rest of the operation here."

Chekov shook his head. The transition between contemplating a fate worse than death and his actual death was too swift.

"Tav was only interested in getting you," Thompson said. "He doesn't realize how close to the truth his frame-up of Vahtik is. Gazt will. Gazt must be eliminated now."

The door burst open. Tav, his head swaddled in bandages and his face as dark as a thundercloud, was flanked by guards. "What are you doing here?"

Thompson went from domineering agent to cowering slave in the blink of an eye. "I was only tending to his injuries, Master."

The Romulan sneered as his guards roughly hoisted the ensign to his feet. "What a stupid waste of effort."

The ensign's eyes fluttered open. Despite the sudden violence of his entrance to this place, his stay thus far in the holding cell had been singularly uneventful. He must have dozed off for a moment. Even in his sleep, however, he'd not forgotten that he was in a Romulan stockade awaiting interrogation, an assassination attempt upon the Security Director, and his own subsequent execution.

The ensign wearily eyed the four other bruised and battered occupants of the cell and tried to determine which one of them had called him. As he looked at their dispirited faces, he realized that none of them had hailed him. The voice had said, "Chekov." Only one other person on this entire planet knew him by that name.

"Sir?" he replied uncertainly, unable to locate the direction Spock had spoken from.

The other prisoners looked up, startled by this unexpected break in their mutually observed silence.

Chekov slowly realized that the voice he'd heard had to have been from inside his head -- either a hallucination, as his fellow prisoners seemed to be assuming, or....

The mental voice was so faint and indistinct that even after hearing it again, Chekov wasn't positive that he hadn't imagined it.

'If he is trying to contact me,' the ensign decided, 'it's from a distance, so it is reasonable that it would be less distinct than usual. If it's a hallucination... well, it's a nice hallucination.'

Chekov straightened as much as the bonds binding him to the wall of the cell would allow and tried to clear his mind. It wasn't very difficult this time. He'd been obsessively going over and over the facts Spock would be most interested in for hours now -- his attack on Tav, what Thompson had instructed him to do, and his own working through of the plan to assassinate Gazt and implicate Tav.

When there was no response from the mental voice, the ensign's brain went on to the next natural progression of the sequence -- his own horrific end. His imagination had worked up several versions of it, each more appalling than the previous. He was beginning to favor the one where he was thrown into a vat of acid. It had a certain eye-for-an-eye quality that he was thought might appeal to the Romulan judicial mind.

Again Chekov was unsure if he hadn't thought the thought himself. This was way things usually went. He imagined hideous forms of execution until he made himself stop. Just as it usually did, his mind wandered back to the beginning of the sequence -- the day he'd first met Tav -- and began to run through the entire scenario again. He was in the midst of picturing himself spitting the zithochlorine on Gazt when...

Chekov blinked. This time the voice even sounded a little like Spock. The timing of the interjection made it seem as though the Vulcan was ordering him not to attempt the assassination...

'Ridiculous,' the ensign scoffed. 'It's as Thompson said, through my errors I am left with no other choice. There is no other way to salvage the mission. This voice is mere wishful thinking.'

'Shut up,' Chekov replied rudely. 'You're only a hallucination. The real Mr. Spock would approve of the plan. He is logical and unemotional. It's what he would choose to do himself... Although he would never be so stupid as to get into such a situation to begin with..."

Chekov ignored it in favor of letting his tongue caress the zithochlorine tablet in its hiding place. Despite the painful thoroughness of the search he'd been given upon his arrival in the stockade, they'd missed it.

'Stupid Romulans,' the ensign thought with malicious glee. 'Perhaps there's enough zithochlorine to get more than just the one...'

There was a collective rattle of chains as the other occupants of the cell turned again to look at him.

Nursing the spot he'd reopened in his lip, the ensign glared back at them. "What are you staring at?" he growled out of the good side of his mouth.

His cellmates immediately averted their gazes -- as if there was something that Chekov, who was restrained as they were, could do to them if they didn't.

Satisfied that he'd managed to cow both them and the voice into silence, Chekov fell back to brooding. He wondered what time it was. It had been just before curfew when he'd attacked Tav -- not quite sundown. He'd lost track of time while they'd kept him locked away waiting for Tav to regain consciousness. It had been dark when they'd marched him to the stockade -- the first time in a very long time the ensign had seen stars. The clock in the detention area had chimed midnight while they searched him. Chekov had lost track of time again after he'd been placed in the cell. Despite the medieval look of the place, they kept everything brightly lit with harsh florescent lights. There was no window, of course. It was probably the equivalent of three in the morning or thereabouts.

'Dawn,' the ensign decided. 'They're waiting until dawn to question and execute me. That's the time that sort of thing traditionally takes place.'

To pass the time, his brain offered a new twist on the execution by dismemberment theme for his contemplation.

While he passed seamlessly in and out of consciousness for the next few hours, his mind killed Gazt, Tav, and himself in so many different ways that he was actually becoming impatient to see how things would really turn out. He straightened at the sound of bootsteps heading towards the cell with a perverse eagerness.

"Pavel!" one of the Romulans shouted at him though the force field separating the cell from the corridor. "You worthless little vermin. I always knew you'd end up like this."

The ensign had to blink three times and pry his bad eye open to confirm that one of what he had assumed to be three standard-issue Romulan guards was actually Zasat.

She grabbed the taller man and pulled him down to her level. "Don't force me to speak to your commander about the breeches in procedure you've already committed."

Chekov wondered, as the Romulan blustered into the cell and knelt down next to him, if she was just another hallucination. If she was, he had no idea what his subconscious was up to this time.

"Well, you're a pretty picture," she said taking him by the chin and turning his head from side to side. "Here, let me see that lip."

Bound as he was, the ensign had no choice in the matter. Zasat forced his mouth open much further than was currently comfortable and somehow managed to stick two of her fingers in his mouth in the process.

"It's no more than you deserve," she scolded, after he shook her off. She put her hands on her hips. "This is what comes of spoiling slaves. If Vahtik had beaten you twice a day like he should have, you'd be at home baking saz'sa rather than here worrying your master sick."

As he sucked on his freshly bleeding lip, the ensign noticed that the zithochlorine tablet was missing. Zasat must have dislodged it.

Just then, the Romulan landed a slap on the bruised half of his face that was so hard it made his ears ring and his vision blur.

The ensign could give no response other than pained gasps as she stalked from the cell. By the time the force field was re-activated and Zasat and her escort had disappeared down the hallway, Chekov recovered enough to begin a panicked search for the tablet. There was no sign of it on his lap or on the floor around him. He didn't stop to think of what he would have done had he seen it. The way his wrists were chained to the wall wouldn't have allowed him to pick the capsule up and put it back into his mouth.

It almost seemed as if Zasat had known where it was and had purposefully come to take the tablet from him. It hardly seemed reasonable that she would have gone to so much trouble just to come in and slap him. Then again, Romulans were such violently passionate creatures it was hard to predict what they might do if a notion took them.

It was hard to adjust to the loss of the zithochlorine. The capsule had given the short remainder of his life purpose and meaning. Without it, he was lost and adrift in a sea of guilt and powerlessness. His errors remained the same, his probable doom remained as certain, but he no longer had the means to make any of it useful to his comrades or meaningful to himself.

Moisture began to leak out the ensign's bad eye. He dismissed it as a reflexive reaction to Zasat's blow, refusing to acknowledge the fact that tears were forming in his good eye as well. A wave of dizziness was building in his stomach. There seemed no reason to resist it. Chekov closed his eyes and surrendered himself to blackness and despair.

Chekov opened his eyes -- at least one and a half of his eyes, slowly. Spock's face loomed over him.

The ensign was not sure of this. Instead of the holding cell, the walls of his and Spock's apartment surrounded him. Someone had moved his cot into the sitting room. Spock sat at his side. "Sir..."

"Don't attempt to move yet," the Vulcan ordered, carefully pushing him back down. "You've suffered a mild concussion." Mentally he continued, And don't speak. Zasat is here.

'Yes, sir,' Chekov replied silently, but immediately disobeyed by asking aloud, "How did I...?"

"Get out of the stockade where you should by all rights be rotting right now?" Zasat walked into view carrying her customary glass of ale. "Well, Tav must have forgotten to press charges against you. He's had a very busy morning. Between being hauled in for attempting to frame Vahtik then being questioned in Gazt's murder, I suppose he didn't have a lot of time to spare to think of you."

"Murdered. Someone slipped a zithochlorine tablet into his tea." Zasat unconcernedly downed her drink and grinned at the ensign. "Not something you'd know anything about, eh, Pavel?"

"An anonymous tip guided Security Officers to the discovery of a supply of zithochlorine in Tav's residence and a journal entry describing a bitter personal dispute between the two of them," Spock said, laying what looked like a comforting hand on the ensign's shoulder. His voice continued inside the ensign's head. Zasat obtained my release shortly after the time of your incarceration. It seems she also had listening devices implanted in our residence. It was simply a matter of finding out through her connections what conversations were being held in evidence against me and providing untampered copies. I attempted to contact you and inform you of the situation, but our link was weak.

"Yes," Zasat was saying. "Old Tav is sure a bold one. Strolled into the Security Director's office and slipped the capsule into the Director's tea so cleverly that the monitors still haven't discovered when he did it. Made it look like he almost drank some of it himself."

I told Zasat that you had the zithochlorine and were planning to use it in an attempt to frame Tav in revenge for his mistreatment of you. I asked her to use her connections to obtain my entry into the stockade to prevent you from doing so. She refused, went herself, confiscated the capsule, and... made her own use of it.

And would have killed Tav if he drank the poisoned tea. She took the unfortunate timing of my arrest as a personal affront.

'She killed them for spoiling her betrothal party?' the ensign thought, horrified.

She killed Gazt and framed Tav for disregarding her power and influence, Spock corrected. She is a most formidable person.

The ensign looked at the plain-faced, middle-aged, ale-guzzling woman before him with new respect. 'Thompson...'

The strain of his assignment and his over-estimation of his own importance has obviously made Lt. Commander Thompson unfit to continue with his current duties. He will be recalled after we return to Federation territory.

'Oh, yes,' Chekov agreed vehemently. 'We should do nothing to interfere with Zasat's happiness.'

"You're luckier than you deserve to be, Pavel," Zasat said, shaking a finger at him. "Your next master won't be so lenient, I'll wager."

"In return for saving your miserable skin, I had Vahtik promise that he'd sell you to one of his associates when he returns to the Orzono. You won't be coming back here, so you'd better make your mind up to that right now."

The Vulcan had removed his hand and broken the link, but Chekov was sure he felt something unspoken pass between the two of them -- something like... affection? From Zasat's version, it sounded like Spock had done more than dispassionately inform her of the ensign's desperate situation. That was ridiculous, though. A Vulcan would not allow sentiment to interfere with his decision making processes... or would he?

"A blind fool could see how attached you are to the boy," Zasat was saying. "And there's nothing wrong with my eyes, Vahtik. If you return to me after your voyage, I want to be able to be sure I'm the only one in your heart."

"If I return, Madame..." The ensign could imagine he saw the hint of a smile on Spock's lips. "...then you may be certain of it."

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