![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
brighteyedjillTitle: Though My Soul May Set in Darkness
Characters/Pairings: McCoy/Chekov
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: implied and remembered non-con, graphic dub con, implied underage, slavery and inherent consent issues, messing around with people’s minds, violence, non-graphic torture, aphrodisiac substances employed deviously (none of it perpetrated by the good guys), and angst. Also, pseudo!science.
Betas: the eagle-eyed![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vellum and the queen of idea-bouncing jaune_chat
Summary: Chekov has recovered from a year spent in captivity after an away mission gone wrong; he’s repaired relationships with his friends and built a new love with a certain surly ship’s doctor. A new undercover mission could offer Chekov closure, but other crew members object to putting himself in danger again. Chekov knows he’s strong enough to face his fears, but can he convince those closest to him that this mission is worth the risk?
“Viceroy.” McCoy offered Camlich a wide smile as he stepped inside. “I see you received my present.”
“Yes.” Camlich petted Chekov’s hair, and Chekov leaned into his knee. “And he’s delightful.”
“I thought he deserved to be with one who’d appreciate him. I’m starting work for a new client soon, so I know I won’t have time to give him the attention he deserves.”
“Is that so?” Camlich narrowed his eyes at McCoy. “Who is this client?”
“You, sir,” McCoy said, and held his breath as he waited for Camlich to order him to be dragged away.
Instead, Camlich laughed uproariously. He threw his head back and howled, and his bodyguards joined with him like a pack of hyenas. At last, Camlich subsided. “You are really a remarkable fellow, Doctor Annidar. And you’ll be a credit to my entourage. Guard!” One of the guards from the hallway stepped inside. “Get the doctor’s things from his room and take them to my ship. He’ll be accompanying us home.”
--
Sulu pushed the shaking shuttle to its top speed, which was far too slow for his taste. He wished he’d had time to look for a better vessel to steal than this flying scrap heap, but the private hanger he’d raided right outside the Governor’s mansion had limited options. At least it had gotten him off the planet unmolested. Sulu set the heading for the rendezvous coordinates and then struggled to pull the wires of the communications panel into some sort of working order.
“Damnit!” The wires sparked in his face, and he pulled back singed fingers.
He glanced back at the navigation computer, adjusted the course heading—damn thing kept drifting off track—and tried to plug in the secondary communication system. Nothing: totally shot.
He dragged out one of the bags he’d snatched from their room—Chekov’s—and pulled out the disguised tricorder. Perhaps with this, he could piece together a way to tell the Enterprise to come beam him off this death trap of a shuttle.
He checked the course heading and made another correction, and that was about the time the landing gear caught fire.
--
Chekov lay writhing on the floor at Camlich’s feet. Although there had been no aphrodisiac in the injection Sulu had given him, he knew all too well what such a drug felt like, and he had no qualms about playing up the symptoms.
From his perspective, he could see Luka still kneeling beside Camlich’s chair, eyes carefully averted from Chekov. He could also see McCoy leaning casually against the wall, chatting with Camlich and looking for all the world as if he were perfectly comfortable in the company of killers.
“She’s actually the one who passed along the rumors of what you were looking for. It was my dumb luck that I acquired him,” McCoy was saying.
“At least you had the wisdom to use your assets well, doctor,” Camlich replied. “Still, I’d like to verify what I have. My steward should be back any moment with—Ah yes, here he is.”
Chekov saw another figure pass between him and the fire: this one short and squat, wearing some sort of dark-colored robe. He pointed a tool and Chekov’s collar, which beeped in response.
“Yes…” The steward said as he stood. “This slave was last purchased on Bussar. Yes… Yes, he was first collared by the Usite band out of Kar’golath. It’s the correct stardate.” He turned the display to show Camlich.
“Oh, delightful.” Camlich came to stand over Chekov. Luka, pulled by the lead attached to his collar, followed. “We’re going to have such a lovely time together, you and I. You know, you’re a pretty matched pair. The two of you should be the poster children of the Federation, and here you are, at my feet.”
Chekov curled up on himself, and Camlich bent down to ruffle a hand through his hair.
“Doctor, you have made this a most profitable trip. I owe you a debt of gratitude.” Camlich rose and turned to McCoy.
“It was no more than your due, Viceroy.” McCoy bowed, which looked unnatural to Chekov, as if it might upset the balance of the universe.
“And if you say that Lady Mihran had some hand in making this come to pass, well, I suppose I shouldn’t turn away as crafty an ally as that. Steward, go inform Lady Mihran that she’ll be accompanying us. And arrange accommodations on board. We’ll be leaving shortly.”
Camlich pushed his boot against Chekov’s shoulder to turn him over on his back. Chekov clawed at his chest, remembering the painful feeling of too-tight skin that being drugged could cause.
“Sorry, lovely boy. I just want to see what your dear doctor’s drug will do to you. I have no intention of enjoying your company until I have time to do it properly.”
Chekov shook his head frantically. He’d suffered through aphrodisiacs before that could drive a man mad with fever if he didn’t reach release; if McCoy was really the sadistic master he was playing, Chekov would surely be in for a painful day. Camlich smiled at his misery.
“In any case,” McCoy said. “I’m happy to mix up another batch whenever you’d like to use it on him.”
“Thank you, Doctor. You are a handy man to have around. Guards! Take these two on board and put them in a holding room. I’ll deal with them when I’m ready.”
--
Sulu had barely materialized in transporter bay two in the soot-covered remains of his skin-tight breeches when Kirk rushed onto the platform to hold him up. “What the hell happened?”
“They’re on his ship,” Sulu said. “The syndicate representative’s ship.”
Kirk’s face darkened. “Alive?”
“Yeah.” Sulu coughed through smoke-ravaged lungs. “For now.”
“Nurse! We’re going to get you to sickbay, Sulu.”
“No, no time. I’m alright for now,” Sulu said. When Kirk started to object, he said, “I can hold on as long as I have to.”
“Fine. Watkins, bring this man a uniform. We’re going to the bridge.” While they walked, Sulu gave Kirk a brief sketch of the events on the planet. After a quick stop to change out of his slave gear, Kirk led him on to the bridge, to cheers from his fellow officers.
“We’re glad Lieutenant Sulu’s back, but we’re not celebrating yet, people,” Kirk said. “We’ve got two officers to recover and a syndicate to bring down. Sulu, first things first, where are we going?”
“We have to pick up the signal and follow them,” Sulu said. “Just like we planned, keeping the minimum safe distance.”
“Wait, I thought you said McCoy and Chekov were trapped on that ship,” Kirk said.
“Not trapped, Captain. Or at least, trapped on purpose. Chekov used that organic tracking compound Scott gave us on himself.”
“Organic, what? Uhura, call Engineering, get Scotty up here. Spock, call battle stations.”
“Captain, we can’t go after them, guns blazing,” Sulu said.
“Why the hell not?” Kirk demanded.
“Because if we do, they’ll have given themselves up for nothing,” Sulu snapped. “Chekov got himself on board that ship so we could track it. If we stop them from getting where they’re going, we defeat the purpose.”
“We don’t have any idea where they’re going. It could take weeks,” Kirk said.
“I do not advise leaving Chekov alone with them for weeks,” Spock said.
“He survived a year as a slave without any assistance from us,” Sulu replied. “And he’s not alone. McCoy’s with him.”
“All the more reason to go after them. These people don’t strike me as the kind to keep prisoners alive,” Kirk said.
“They’re not prisoners. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“Their cover is intact?” Spock asked.
“Yes. Sort of. They know Chekov’s a Starfleet officer.”
“So their cover is not intact?” Spock asked.
“Yes, it is. They think he’s still memory-wiped,” Sulu explained. “They think he’s still who he is when McCoy bought him on Bussar. A captured Starfleet officer.”
“And they think McCoy is…?” Kirk prompted.
“A very clever owner who brought them a captured Starfleet officer.”
“Lieutenant,” Spock said. “From what we know of the syndicate, I don’t believe they’re likely to give gentle treatment to a slave they know is from Starfleet.”
“No, they’re not.” Sulu tried to block out the mental image of Camlich’s cruel, bored expression. “But Chekov knew that, and he went anyway. Captain, we have to give him some time.”
“He did this on purpose?” Kirk asked.
“Yes, sir.”
The bridge fell silent for a moment, save for the ping of instruments. Then Kirk nodded, his decision made. “Okay. Lieutenant Uhura, find that signal. McKenna, keep us in orbit for now. We don’t want to spook our quarry. Spock, put together a covert away team. I want them in a shuttle on their way to the surface of Ranii in an hour. We’ll need them to break up the festivities once this plays out. Make sure to include medical personnel and plenty of security. Sulu. Get cleaned up, have M’Benga check you out, then report to my ready room at thirteen hundred hours for a full debrief. Let’s do this, people.”
--
Chekov hurried to keep up with the blue-uniformed guard. He got the feeling that even Camlich's special attention would not earn him any lenience with the attendants here. The corridors of the ship wound strangely, in no discernable pattern. Chekov committed their paths to memory as he walked; when the time came to escape, any advantage might be crucial.
Luka trailed him by only a few steps. He hadn't spoken since Camlich had ordered them aboard the ship, but he avoided Chekov's eyes each time Chekov attempted to check on him. McCoy and Lady Mihran had gone with Camlich, but Chekov doubted her absence was the cause of Luka's discomfort. Rather, Luka seemed upset at Chekov himself. "Here." The guard stopped outside a door no different from any of the two dozen they'd passed on this straight corridor. It bore no number or label, simply a glyph-like mark on the dull grey surface of the door. The guard pressed his hand to the control panel and the door slid open to reveal a small, square room, entirely bare.
Luka went in first, eyes downcast under the guard's watchful gaze.
Chekov glanced behind them in the hallway. He'd thought he might be able to hide somewhere on the ship until they'd reached their destination and thus avoid Camlich's tender mercies. These guards, however, seemed highly trained, and more vigilant than Chekov had hoped. And then there was Luka. Chekov stepped inside the cell and tried not to shudder as the door boomed shut behind him. Faintly, he heard the footsteps of the guard receding into the distance.
Without looking at Chekov, Luka settled himself cross-legged on the hard floor, facing the corner. He settled his hands on his knees and closed his eyes. Chekov reflected that he'd never seen Luka meditate, but if he remembered enough Vulcan training to mind meld, he must certainly remember this as well.
Chekov inspected their prison minutely. The door had pressure sealed behind the guard, with no gap anywhere in its construction, and no control panel on this side. The walls, floor, and ceiling were the same grey synthetic metal as the corridor outside. A small hole the width of a finger marked the center of the ceiling, but it was too high up for Chekov to reach on his own, and without examining it further, he couldn't guess its purpose. The room contained nothing: neither waste disposal system, nor food, nor comfort of any kind. Camlich couldn't store slaves this way for a long journey; at least not if he wanted them in good condition. This must be a temporary holding cell, then. Perhaps Camlich wanted to impress that the two would receive no special treatment, despite their value, or perhaps he didn't see the point in wasting comforts on slaves he planned to kill. Chekov fervently hoped it wasn't the latter.
Examining the room took pathetically little time. Chekov stood near the doorway listening until his imagination started to get the better of him and he began hearing phantom sounds. He sat against the wall next to the door and retraced the route they'd taken from the transporter room to this cell. He was certain he could get off the ship that way if the need arose. Of course, the challenge would be getting out of here and making it to the transporter room unchallenged, and buying himself sufficient time to find a suitable place to go, assuming such a target existed within range. If he left, he would be abandoning the mission: the only tracking device he had was himself. That left one viable tactical option: keep Camlich believing he represented no threat.
The cold of the metal wall crept into Chekov's skin. The slave uniform that had seemed less than sufficient at the banquet now seemed even more unpleasant. Luka wore no more than he: simple cotton pants cut below the knee, with no shirt nor footwear. Chekov estimated they guard had left them over an hour ago. Camlich probably intended to make them wait much longer than a mere hour, and Chekov would prefer not to spend that time miserable and shivering.
He knelt next to Luka and placed a hand tentatively on his back, against skin that felt warm to the touch. Luka didn't respond. Chekov wondered if he was simply too deep in meditation to notice the distraction. He moved his hand to Luka's shoulder, and that's when Luka moved. Chekov found himself thrown onto his back. His head glanced painfully off the hard surface of the floor. Luka slammed Chekov's hands down to pin them at his sides, and knelt atop him, trapping Chekov's center of gravity beneath his own.
Chekov blinked up at Luka. His Vulcan calm seemed disintegrated; his eyes burned with emotion, and he bore his teeth in a terrible snarl. "Betrayer. Traitor," he growled. "Why have you done this to me?"
Chekov opened his mouth, but couldn't speak to answer for himself. He still didn't know how much Luka had learned through their meld, but he couldn't risk giving away that he was not who he claimed to be. He would have given anything to have a way to explain to Luka that he meant him no harm.
"I know you were planning something with that man who pretends to be your master. You could have gotten us away from that place. Now we are trapped. Lord Camlich is like no other master. Don't you know what you've done?" He shook Chekov as he spoke. "You have murdered us!"
Chekov tried to raise a hand, to soothe, to attempt an explanation.
"No!" Luka shifted his grip to pin Chekov's wrists together with one hand. The other hand encircled Chekov's throat. "Do not give me your pretty lies. You seemed so innocent and kind."
His hand pressed down against Chekov’s neck, cutting off his air. Chekov struggled, trying to unseat Luka, or pull his arms free, but he was far too weak. He could only beat his bare legs against the floor ineffectually. For a moment, Chekov feared his death. He'd seen a Vulcan out of control exactly once, and only the intervention of an elder had stayed Spock's hand. No one would save him from Luka. He squeezed his eyes closed and tensed, waiting for darkness to take him.
Then the pressure was gone. He gasped in air, and his eyes flew open. Above him, Luka held he shaking hands in front of him. He looked pale and suddenly seemed very young. "No. I am not like them. I am not like they want me to be." He scrambled off of Chekov and retreated to his corner of the room to fold himself up against the wall.
Chekov stay where he was for a moment, gulping in air, unsure if Luka’s dark mood would return. When Luka stayed curled in on himself, his concern for the young Vulcan overrode his fear, and he went to wrap his arms around Luka. To his mild surprise, Luka neither shrugged him off nor attempted to hit him. He relaxed marginally under Chekov’s touch.
“I apologize. I should not have attacked you. You are not to blame for our current predicament.” Luka uncurled a bit, and when he turned to look at Chekov, his eyes were halfway sane. “I do intend to survive this place, so if you know something I do not, I suggest that you explain.”
Chekov shook his head.
“I could help you show me the information, you know. I remember how to connect to another’s mind.”
Chekov gently tapped Luka on the forehead, then wiped his hand across his own brow.
Luka regarded him with a raised eyebrow.
Chekov snatched at the air and repeated the other two movements.
“Are you asking me a question?”
Chekov nodded slowly.
“You’re asking if my memories were tampered with when I was captured?”
Chekov nodded.
“Yes. Most other slaves I have encountered remember nothing before they were captured. I believe that my abilities afforded me a measure of protection. Were you memories altered when you were taken?”
Chekov nodded again.
“But you remember things beyond your time as a slave. I have seen memories of you somewhere else, without a collar. But you were with your master. How do you explain this?”
Chekov thought for a moment about how he could possibly convey his position, and how much he could tell Luka without endangering his mission. The room was almost certainly monitored; he couldn’t risk giving away information he didn’t want his enemies to have. At last, he shrugged helplessly.
“If you will not tell me, I can find out for myself,” Luka whispered. “I do not need your permission to touch your mind.”
Chekov frowned. He pointed to the door, then shook his head, then pointed at Luka.
“I am not like them,” he said sharply. “I am only attempting to survive in difficult circumstances. You know more than you are telling me.”
Chekov gathered his thoughts into one focused idea. He reached for Luka’s hands and gripped them tightly, holding the image in his mind of watchers: cameras, recording devices, yellow eyes of beasts that watched from the darkness of the woods.
Luka snatched his hands away. He looked up at the ceiling, where one small dot provided the only variation in their cell. He looked back at Chekov and nodded.
“We will talk later.” He turned back to the wall, then relented, and held out his hand to Chekov. “Do you want to keep warm?”
Chekov nodded gratefully. They wrapped their arms around each other, found a less uncomfortable position wedged against the walls in the corner, and dozed.
--
Kirk was fairly certain his current headache was due to stress. If McCoy had been here, he’d have bullied his friend into giving him some sort of medication to stave off the worst of it, but he didn’t want to bother M’Benga with such a trivial thing. Besides, his doctor, his friend was out there somewhere, and the job of finding him was starting to look difficult.
“You’re saying that we can’t track the tracking compound?” Sulu was asking. “Then what good is it?!”
“Neh, it doesn’t work like that,” Scotty said. “It’s not nearly powerful enough to emit a signal like a regular tracker would. More like it spools out a thin line behind it, that we can hold onto once we catch it. Luckily, we know what we’re looking for, so as soon as we catch one end off the signal, we shouldn’t be able to lose it again. Like a bloodhound catching a scent.”
“So how do we catch it?” Kirk asked.
“Well that part’s a wee bit tricky,” Scotty said. “The idea was that you’d be starting from where the compound was deployed. Picking up the scent from there.”
“Well we don’t exactly have time to beam down to the surface,” Kirk said. “Even if we could, we don’t want word to get back to the Viceroy that Starfleet is hunting him.”
“I think I can find it,” Sulu said.
“Lieutenant, I’m not sure you grasped what Mister Scott is attempting to explain,” Spock said. “The path of the signal—”
“Will be very difficult to find, I get it.”
Kirk looked closely at Sulu, who seemed to be listening to a faraway sound. “Sulu?”
“I have a feeling about this. Can I…?”
“By all means,” Kirk said. Having come up with no brilliant plan of his own in the last five minutes, he was certainly willing to give Sulu a chance. Sulu seemed to feel very confident about this idea, and Kirk of all people knew that good things could come of indulging hunches. They all trooped onto the bridge: Sulu looking faraway yet hopeful, Spock looking dubious, Scotty curious, and Kirk watching them all and withholding judgment, for once.
“Mister Sulu, you can take the helm.”
“Captain,” Spock said quietly. “You realize if we range too close to the fleeing vessel, we are likely to lose them entirely.”
“I understand that. But considering how long it took Sulu to make the rendezvous point in that beater of a shuttle, I don’t think we’re in danger of that quite yet.”
“As you say.”
Sulu sat down at the controls with a look of complete calm. “Engaging manual control,” he said.
Jumping out of autopilot could be a bumpy experience, but Sulu worked the helm with such a deft touch that Kirk barely felt the difference.
“Uhura,” Kirk said. “Keep a sharp ear out for that signal.”
“Aye, captain.”
Ranii loomed large in the viewscreen, then fell away as Sulu brought the Enterprise about. He took them out past high orbit range, and further still.
“Sir,” Spock said, quietly again, “a search pattern closer to the planet’s atmosphere would provide a greater chance of--”
“Shh,” Kirk said. “Let him try.”
Sulu closed his eyes, and seemed to be listening to some inner voice as he worked the controls.
“Captain,” Spock said.
“Yes, Mister Spock.”
“Our pilot seems to be flying with his eyes closed.”
“Yes, Mister Spock.”
“Do I need to point out the reasons why this is unadvisable?”
“No, Mister Spock.”
“There,” Sulu said, and opened his eyes.
“Captain!” Uhura called. “I think I have it.”
--
McCoy cursed under his breath as another guard walked by. He took the opposite corridor, and was hopelessly lost again. At this rate, he was never going to find where they’d taken Chekov. He took another branching path at random. To his dismay, this turn brought him face to face with Lady Mihran.
“Doctor! What a pleasant surprise. I wanted to speak with you.”
“Wonderful,” he muttered, but he plastered on a polite smile and went to walk beside her.
“Camlich’s guards told me you seemed to be wandering aimlessly, so I thought you might like some company.” She extended her hand to take McCoy’s arm, and he allowed it.
“Usually I prefer long walks on the beach,” McCoy said, “but I take whatever walk I can get.”
“You’re a strange man, Doctor.” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Tell me something. First you deliberately undermine me in front of Camlich, then you tell him that bringing your Starfleet boy to him was all my idea, and all but insist that he bring me along. You’re certainly not the bumbling political novice you play at seeming. Who are you really?”
“Just a simple country doctor. And now I’m a simply country doctor with at least two powerful friends.”
“Hm.” She tossed her hair and let it fall down to hide her face, but not before he’d seen her pleased smile. “I was just headed down to the slave quarters to examine Camlich’s stock,” she said. “Shall we walk that way?”
“Sounds even better than the beach.”
Mihran steered them through a series of complicated turns that McCoy gave up trying to memorize after his mental map doubled back on itself. Twice.
Meanwhile, Mihran kept up her cheerful monologue about Camlich’s slave stock. “He does get first pick of anything traded at the festival, so I’m sure he has some of the most unusual finds. I quite enjoy seeing the more unusual slaves. I know your tastes run to the exotic as well. I mean, a mind-wiped Starfleet officer and a guardsman to take care of him. Whatever happened to your guardsman, anyway?”
“I told you, you can’t buy them, only pay their contract. When I sold Pasha, his contract was severed, so now ‘Karu will go back to the guild for reassignment.”
“How strange not to truly own a slave that serves you. I wouldn’t want someone that close to me whose loyalty I couldn’t control completely.”
And that, McCoy thought, was yet another reason he had trouble keeping his meals down when he was with her.
Either Mihran’s sense of direction far eclipsed McCoy’s or she’d been given some sort of tour, because she unerringly found her way to a guarded door in a part of the ship McCoy hadn’t seen before.
The uniformed guard at the entrance nodded to each of them in turn, then punched a code into the control panel. The door slid open noiselessly.
Two more guards stood stationed inside the door, and one of these fell into step behind McCoy and Mihran as they stepped out onto the narrow walkway that ran along the wall overlooking the slave barracks. The open space inside the chamber rivaled one of the Enterprise’s cargo bays. From their vantage point, McCoy had a clear view of the slaves—more than a hundred, he estimated. Sleeping units seemed to be set into the floor, and many were occupied by slaves in tight gray pants, some of which had other clothes or accessories, some not. A table with benches ran the length of the far wall. Some slaves sat there, huddled together, apparently talking. Others sat or stood around the room in small groups.
At the sound of McCoy and Mihran’s footfalls on the metal walkway grating, an immediate silence seized the room. Slaves glanced up, then quickly averted their eyes.
Mihran leaned over the railway, peering down. “Aren’t they precious?” Her voice echoed, over-loud in this silent tomb of a barrack. “A smorgasbord of delicious possibilities. The Viceroy told me that we’re welcome to their hospitality for the duration of the voyage.”
“Right. Great.” McCoy carefully scanned the crowd of slaves, but didn’t see the one curly blond head he was looking for.
“You’ve probably been spoiled having just one slave for this long, haven’t you?” she asked. “You’ve gotten lazy with never having to explain what you want and knowing all the things that make your boy beg and love you for it.”
“It is… convenient.” McCoy tried very hard not to think about the ticklish spot on Chekov’s right side that never failed to set him laughing and swatting at McCoy. He wanted Chekov in his arms again, wanted it so badly he ached with it.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure either they’re still getting your boy settled, or he’s with Camlich. Either way, I’m certain he’s being seen to,” Mihran said. Both prospects sounded equally unappealing to McCoy. “Besides, Doctor, variety is the spice of life. Let me show you the fun that can be had with a new toy.”
“Perhaps another time,” he said, and smiled grimly at the dimming of the fierce pleasure in her eyes. “I have some other business to attend to.” He left the room, dragging behind him the guilt of knowing Mihran certainly wouldn’t leave until she found a victim for her pleasure.
--
“Honesty,” said Sulu, “I have no good explanation.” His head felt perfectly clear, aside from a rising tide of anxiety that probably came from being cross-examined by the rest of the senior bridge crew, or possibly was a lingering side-effect of nearly burning alive in a shuttle fire.
“But that,” Scotty said. “That was like picking a needle out a haystack using a ship. A ship that has no opposable thumbs, by the way. Shouldn’t have been possible.”
“I agree that it seems unlikely to be a coincidence,” Spock said. “Mister Sulu, can you describe again how exactly you pinpointed the signal?”
“It’s a thing that’s kind of been happening,” Sulu said slowly. When the others looked at him with varying degrees of incredulity, he sighed, and tried to formulate a better—a more scientific—explanation. “When we were on the planet, I developed this awareness of Chekov. I could tell if he was in pain, that sort of thing.”
“Like an empathic connection,” Spock said.
“You’re saying you suddenly developed empathic abilities?” Kirk asked.
“I’m not saying anything! I’m just telling you what happened. I could sense things that happened to him. I woke up, that last morning, when he was planning to run off on his own, and I knew I had to follow him. I don’t know why.”
Kirk suddenly leaned over the table for a better look at Sulu. “You’ve been on board how long, now? Six hours? Eight?”
“Something like that,” Sulu said. “Why?”
“Why haven’t you taken your collar off?”
“I did.” But Sulu brought his hand up to his throat, and felt the warm weight of it around his neck. “Okay, I thought I did. That’s odd.”
“Didn’t you say that the guardsman who came to visit here gave you that collar?” Kirk asked.
“Let me see it,” Scotty said, crowding closer.
“I don’t think I want to take it off yet.” Sulu pulled away from Scotty’s prying hands. “Not until we get them back.”
“That’s irrational,” Spock said. “A mere accessory has nothing whatsoever to do with Doctor McCoy and Ensign Chekov’s return.”
“It just seems like I shouldn’t take it off.” Now that he realized he still had it on, Sulu felt a bit ill when he thought of removing it.
“Wait a second,” Kirk said. “I have an idea. Come on, Sulu.” He rose, and Sulu followed reluctantly.
“Where are we going?” Sulu asked when they’d made it to the corridor.
“Sickbay.”
Sulu stopped abruptly. “I don’t need—”
“Now,” Kirk said, and kept walking.
“Why--? Oh, never mind.” Sulu followed his captain.
When they made it to sickbay, Kirk flagged down Nurse Chapel. “Nurse, can you take a look at this for me?” He motioned Sulu forward and pointed to his collar.
Chapel looked at the collar, then up at Sulu, then back at Kirk. “It’s a collar,” she said, with a look that clearly said she doubted Kirk was qualified to be captain.
“Yeah, got that part,” Kirk said. “Can you, I don’t know, scan it or something?”
“Scan it,” she said slowly.
“Medically scan it. With a medical thing.”
“Lieutenant?” she turned to Sulu.
“I think he has a hunch,” Sulu said helpfully.
“You’re sure this isn’t something an engineer should be doing?” she asked.
“Humor me,” Kirk said.
Chapel went to retrieve a medical scanner from the counter, muttering, “I hope McCoy gets back soon.” But she pointed the scanner. Then she frowned. “Bizarre.”
Kirk gave Sulu his best “told you so” look.
“The collar itself has a brainwave pattern,” Chapel said. “It looks like something psi-sensitive, like a Betazoid.”
“Psi-sensitive?” Sulu said. “You’re saying the collar’s sentient?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Chapel said. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“So it could be imparting some sort of empathic link,” Kirk said.
“It’s not really my area.”
“Maybe it’s enhancing latent psychic abilities of some sort?”
“Captain, I’m running out of euphemisms for ‘I don’t know.’”
“Right.” Kirk strode over to the wall panel and comm’d the bridge. “Uhura?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“I need you to contact Vhatos Rho. We need to know what the hell his friend gave Sulu.”
--
Chekov woke up to the door of their cell creaking open. Two uniformed guards stood at the doorway. “Come.”
Luka untangled himself from Chekov and stood first. Chekov followed more slowly, wincing at unfolding joints grown stiff with cold.
One guard led the way, the other followed the two slaves as they made their way through monotonous corridors that branched and twisted until Chekov was sure the architect of the Viceroy’s ship had been mad. At last they opened a door—again, marked only with a single glyph—and shooed the two inside.
Two slave women in drab gray uniforms and plain black collars stripped them efficiently. The guards stood by, leaning against the wall and leering, but the women expressed as little interest in the two as if they had been dumb animals. They shoved both Luka and Chekov under a spray of cold water and scrubbed them down with coarse clothes. Chekov hissed as one woman scraped carelessly over the wounds on his back, and Luka shot the woman such a hard look that she backed off immediately. The whole operation was accomplished with impersonal, silent efficiency.
While they were drying down Luka, one of the women pushed Chekov to his knees, produced a pair of clippers, and began efficiently shearing his hair. He kept his eyes trained on the ground, watching his curls drift to the damp metal floor. McCoy loved to twirl his hands through Chekov’s hair; he was always saying how soft it was, how he loved the smell, the feel of it.
A sudden movement grabbed Chekov’s attention, as Luka shoved the woman attending him. She stumbled back but stayed on her feet. The nearest guard stepped quickly forward and slammed his fist into Luka’s belly with a sickening thud. Luka fell to his knees, gasping, and the guard crouched beside him with a firm hand around the back of his neck. “Behave,” he said warningly.
When the woman approached Luka with her cutters, Luka tried to scramble away again, but the guard drew back a foot to kick him, and Luka quickly stilled. He clasped his hands on his thighs until his knuckles turned white, as the woman cut away lock after lock of his thick black hair, shearing him right down to the scalp. When she finished and moved away, Luka was shaking. With his pointed ears so exposed, his face looked even younger; he seemed more naked than Chekov had ever seen him.
Then the women led them into the next room, where one of the women picked up a long metal tool with a circle at the end about the size of Chekov’s palm. He knew he’d seen such a thing before, but couldn’t place where. Then the guards pressed Chekov against the wall face-first. The woman holding the tool stepped up behind him and pressed the circle into the skin of his shoulder. He had a split second to remind himself he must not scream before the pain hit him.
The brand’s burn seared through him like a roaring fire. He jerked forward, smashing his head against the wall, and found the dull ache a pleasant distraction from the screaming burn of the brand. The smell of burning flesh hit him a moment later, threatening to turn his stomach. The brand was pulled away, the guards released him, and he slumped to the floor, unable to catch himself.
Luka’s scream and the guards’ cursing seemed to come from very far away. Then Luka’s cry turned from angry defiance to a more desperate pitch: the sound of an animal caught in a trap. Chekov tried to pull himself up, but his body wouldn’t obey him, couldn’t obey him. Everything seemed to be shutting down around him.
When he woke up, he felt blessedly numb. The woman who’d washed him was rubbing some sort of cool ointment into his shoulder. They must have given him a pain killer, because he couldn’t feel the brand, or the wounds from the whip, at all.
“Rest now,” the woman said. She pointed to a blanket rolled out along the wall of this room: somewhere new altogether. Chekov looked around quickly. It took him a moment to recognize the shivering, naked wretch sitting curled on a blanket as Luka.
“Tonight you will be with the others, but you must regain your strength,” the woman said. “We will bring you food later.”
Chekov waited until she left, leaving them in semi-darkness. A glowing panel in the room’s ceiling gave plenty of light once his eyes adjusted. He dragged himself unsteadily to his feet and went to check the door. As he’d expected, there was no control panel, and no way out.
Chekov walked over to Luka, who sat with his legs drawn up to his chest, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He knelt beside him for a moment, just listening and watching him. When Luka didn’t move, Chekov touched his arm. Luka pulled his hands away from his eyes and shook his head. “Do you know the history of our people?” he asked.
Chekov cocked his head to the side. It wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. He held his hand and rocked it side-to-side for “sort of.”
“We share a common ancestry with the Romulans. We chose the path of the philosopher Surak, to conquer our emotions and embrace logic, and they… did not.”
Chekov nodded: yes, he knew that.
“We are much the same, beneath the surface. Vulcans do feel emotions, deeply. We simply choose to control them.” He slid closer to Chekov, and leaned his head against Chekov’s shoulder. “I feel such anger, Pasha. I cannot control it. They are taking away everything that makes me Vulcan, and turning me into something else.”
Chekov wrapped his arms around Luka and held him close as the Vulcan clutched at him, taking deep breaths and trying to hold down his panic. Chekov wished he dared tell him that everything would be alright, that he shouldn’t give up.
“They’ve already found a way to erase everything you were. I cannot let them do that to me.” He grabbed Chekov by the shoulders and whispered in his ear, “Help me find a way, and I will end this misery for us both.”
Chekov shook his head frantically. He couldn’t let Luka even consider that, not when he was part of the reason Luka was here. He pulled Luka’s hand to his head, and opened his mind.
”I am a Starfleet officer.” The bridge swam in his vision: the shine of the instruments, and the gleam of the endless frontier of stars beyond. “The Federation sent me here. Even now my ship is pursuing us.” The Enterprise cut through space, the stars a blur around her. “They will find us, and they will stop Camlich and his allies.” Kirk held phaser, firing with deadly aim. “We only have to wait a little longer.”
Luka pulled away, gasping. Chekov waited for him to attack, to berate him for letting this happen, to question why he had allowed innocent bystanders to get caught up in this madness. Instead, Luka breathed in deeply, and let out a long, slow breath. He looked calm for the first time since they’d been brought aboard.
“Come on.” Luka wrapped his arms around Chekov again in a pleasantly warm embrace, and they lay down together on the thin blanket. “We will wait a little longer.”
--
Uhura found herself once again confronting the wrinkled face of the ancient Doctor Vhatos Rho, this time with his companion, the guardsman Jhellain, on the vid screen. Kirk and Sulu sat beside Uhura at the table.
To their credit, Rho and Jhellain didn’t pretend not to know why she had contacted them.
“The collar works as an empathic implant, allowing the guardsman to monitor his ward more closely,” Rho explained. “It also ensures that he will continue to value his ward’s safety.”
“However, it only works if the person in question either already has an emotional connection to his ward, or the capacity to develop one,” Jhellain added. “You could never ward someone you hated, for example. That is why the guild is solely responsible for identifying potential guardsmen and assigning them wards.”
“Apparently Jhellain was correct in her judgment that you were capable of forming an emotional connection to your ward, Mister Sulu. Correct in spades,” Rho said with a raised eyebrow.
Uhura started to ask a question about that, but Sulu cut her off.
“When we were together on the planet, I could sometimes feel strong emotions from Chekov. If he was in danger, or something. Would I still be able to feel that, from this distance?” Sulu asked.
“Perhaps,” Jhellain said. “Distance does tend to mute the effect of the empathy.”
“Well, what about this bloodhound thing Sulu did,” Kirk piped up. “Could we find Chekov with it? Could the connection be used that way?
“If it was strong enough,” Rho said. He glanced at Jhellain, who nodded. “The emotional connection would have to be very robust, and probably built up over time.”
“Will it only work for me?” Sulu asked. “I mean, it’s not keyed to my DNA or anything, is it?”
“No, not exactly. You won’t be able to change who the connection is already built with, if that’s what you mean. Your ward remains yours until one of you dies.” Rho made a sign against evil.
“I mean Doctor McCoy,” Sulu said. He glanced at Kirk. “If I gave it to him, his connection to Chekov might expedite finding him once you beam aboard.”
“Are you sure it will work for him?” Uhura asked.
Jhellain looked at Sulu. “What do you think, Mr. Sulu? You know the requirements. Does Doctor McCoy meet them?”
Uhura thought back to the questions Sulu had described: if he would risk his life for another, if he had ever been in love. And the vow: All that has been taken from him, I restore.
“Yes,” Sulu said without hesitation. “Yes, he does.”
“Then,” Rho said, “he just might have a chance.”
--
The women, escorted by three guards, had moved Chekov and Luka to the slave barracks that afternoon, and outfitted them with the same drab gray pants as all the others. They’d been fed, bathed again, and given another injection that chased away the pain of their still-raw brands. Chekov hadn’t had any time more alone to try to communicate with Luka, but since Luka had made no move to alert the guards to a spy in their midst, Chekov continued to trust him.
The rest of the slaves kept away from them, scampering away whenever Chekov or Luka got too close, as if they might carry some plague. After being snarled at or ignored by almost every other slave in the barracks, they found an unoccupied sleeping mat in one of the recessed alcoves, and lay down together. Neither of them slept, but they held each other for comfort, united together against the pain of the outside world.
When the door on the upper level hissed open, and boots echoed on the walkway above, all the slaves froze like mice under the gaze of a hunting hawk. Taking their cue from the others, Chekov and Luka held very still.
“Those two,” said a voice from on high.
Chekov sat up immediately and looked to the walkway. McCoy stood pointing down at them from the upper level. His heart leapt, but he immediately schooled his expression into neutrality. Though McCoy seemed to be alone, someone could still be watching.
A guard stationed by the door on the lower level came to drag Chekov and Luka out of their bed and push them toward a smaller door Chekov hadn’t noticed before. This one led down a narrow corridor. At the end, a door opened onto a small room stocked with a crude biobed and several sealed cabinets. After a moment, McCoy appeared in the doorway.
“You can go,” he told the guard.
The guard didn’t move. He jutted his chin out at Luka. “That one fought. He’s dangerous.”
“I think I can handle two slaves,” McCoy said with an impressive amount of venom. “Stand outside. I’ll call if I need your assistance.”
Looking pained, the guard stepped outside and shut the door behind him.
McCoy’s eyes flicked up to the ceiling, then around the room. At last, he looked at Chekov and raised an eyebrow.
Chekov didn’t see any obvious places for cameras or recording devices, but he didn’t know what kind of advanced technology the syndicate possessed. He’d rather not gamble, so he shrugged helplessly.
McCoy’s face fell, but he nodded. “I’ve been ordered to prepare you to entertain tonight. The Viceroy wants to sample his new wares.”
He turned around to drop his med kit on the counter. Out of the corner of his eye, Chekov saw Luka poised to strike, and stepped in front of him. He grabbed Luka’s wrist and concentrated on the picture of McCoy in a Starfleet uniform, and the feeling of safety and home that came every time he crossed Chekov’s mind. Luka looked between Chekov and McCoy, nodded, and backed down.
McCoy turned around and made a strangled sound.
Chekov whirled to see what he was looking at, but McCoy caught his arm and turned him around again. “Is this a brand?”
Chekov winced. He’d almost forgotten about it: the pain reduced to a numb throbbing thanks to whatever they’d dosed him with. He couldn’t see the mark, but judging from the state of Luka’s, his own couldn’t look pretty.
“Damn fools around here,” McCoy muttered. “Liable to get infected, and then where would they be? Pasha, stand still. Luka, go lie facedown on the table. You’re next.”
McCoy cleaned the wound and taped a bandage over it. “A dermal regenerator would heal this much faster,” he explained softly. “But I don’t think that’s what the Viceroy is going for.”
Chekov nodded his understanding.
He watched as McCoy gave Luka the same treatment, all while trying to touch him as little as possible. Luka kept his eyes closed tight, as if waiting for a blow that never came. At last, McCoy turned back to Chekov. He settled a hand on his shoulder and allowed them both a moment of indulgence by kissing Chekov’s forehead. “You hurt anywhere else?” he asked.
Chekov shook his head. McCoy turned him around and pressed his hand to an unmarked spot on Chekov’s back. “Whip marks are healing up okay. You’ll need another round with the dermal regenerator soon, to make sure they don’t scar.”
Chekov nodded. He wanted to tell McCoy that they would be alright, that they would surely be back on the Enterprise in a few days, but he wasn’t sure of that himself. Here in this cold, sterile room, the Enterprise seemed like a faraway fantasy that belonged to another life.
“Luka, are you hurt at all?”
Luka froze, perhaps startled at being addressed. He dropped his eyes immediately to the ground. “No, sir.”
“Good. There’s one more thing.” He let go of Chekov. “The Viceroy says we’ll be reaching our destination tonight. He wants to… celebrate. He asked me to administer the same drug I did before. To make sure that you… enjoy tonight’s festivities.” He glanced at Luka. “I told him I couldn’t risk giving the drug to a Vulcan, as I had no idea what it might do to someone of your physiology. When I said you might die of an allergic reaction, he figured it was best that you go without. So no injection for you.” He nodded to Chekov. “I’ll just get that mixture put together.”
He punched a code into a small panel by one of the locked cabinets, and it popped open to reveal a row of meticulously labeled containers. McCoy took a hypospray from his med kit and fumbled about with it.
Chekov watched the whole operation, thinking that someone who was unfamiliar with McCoy’s meticulous attention to detail while working might be fooled by his pretense of putting together an aphrodisiac, but Chekov knew better. If there was any medicine at all in that hypospray, Chekov would be surprised.
McCoy turned around with the hypospray and a determined look. “Ready?”
Chekov couldn’t be sure what Camlich had in mind for him and Luka this evening, but he’d lay odds that it wasn’t pleasant. Chekov thought of what he had done before, feigning a drug-induced stupor, but fully aware of Camlich’s every sadistic grin as he watched Chekov squirm. He shook his head emphatically.
“What?” McCoy said.
Chekov went over to the cabinet, glanced over the bottles quickly, and found a likely looking one. He tapped the bottle on the shelf, then the hypospray in McCoy’s hand, and pointed to himself.
McCoy lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m not giving you a mind-altering drug.”
Chekov closed his eyes and dug inside himself for a way to make McCoy understand. He came up with nothing. He just opened his eyes and looked up at the man he loved. He wanted to say he couldn’t do this alone. He wanted to ask for help. He wanted McCoy to save him.
McCoy reached out and brushed his fingers against Chekov’s cheek. He knew. He understood. He would do anything to take this pain away from Chekov.
McCoy quickly turned back to the counter. He drew down two of the containers from the cabinet, mixed a compound, and loaded it into the hypospray. “You’ll have a few hours before the main effects take hold,” McCoy said as he worked. “It’ll last a few more hours after that. Just… Drink fluids, if you can.” He met Chekov’s eyes again, and received a nod before he pressed the hypospray against Chekov’s neck.
The drugs hit Chekov’s system like a slow-motion wave. He spent a moment washed out past the shores of his consciousness before being carried back to reality.
McCoy was packing up his med kit. He closed up the cabinets, took one last look around the room, and nodded to Luka. He pulled Chekov in by the neck and kissed him quickly. “See you soon.” He pushed open the door. “See, was that so hard?” he sneered at the guard. Then he was gone.
Previous Part
Master Post
Next Part
Characters/Pairings: McCoy/Chekov
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: implied and remembered non-con, graphic dub con, implied underage, slavery and inherent consent issues, messing around with people’s minds, violence, non-graphic torture, aphrodisiac substances employed deviously (none of it perpetrated by the good guys), and angst. Also, pseudo!science.
Betas: the eagle-eyed
vellum and the queen of idea-bouncing jaune_chatSummary: Chekov has recovered from a year spent in captivity after an away mission gone wrong; he’s repaired relationships with his friends and built a new love with a certain surly ship’s doctor. A new undercover mission could offer Chekov closure, but other crew members object to putting himself in danger again. Chekov knows he’s strong enough to face his fears, but can he convince those closest to him that this mission is worth the risk?
“Viceroy.” McCoy offered Camlich a wide smile as he stepped inside. “I see you received my present.”
“Yes.” Camlich petted Chekov’s hair, and Chekov leaned into his knee. “And he’s delightful.”
“I thought he deserved to be with one who’d appreciate him. I’m starting work for a new client soon, so I know I won’t have time to give him the attention he deserves.”
“Is that so?” Camlich narrowed his eyes at McCoy. “Who is this client?”
“You, sir,” McCoy said, and held his breath as he waited for Camlich to order him to be dragged away.
Instead, Camlich laughed uproariously. He threw his head back and howled, and his bodyguards joined with him like a pack of hyenas. At last, Camlich subsided. “You are really a remarkable fellow, Doctor Annidar. And you’ll be a credit to my entourage. Guard!” One of the guards from the hallway stepped inside. “Get the doctor’s things from his room and take them to my ship. He’ll be accompanying us home.”
--
Sulu pushed the shaking shuttle to its top speed, which was far too slow for his taste. He wished he’d had time to look for a better vessel to steal than this flying scrap heap, but the private hanger he’d raided right outside the Governor’s mansion had limited options. At least it had gotten him off the planet unmolested. Sulu set the heading for the rendezvous coordinates and then struggled to pull the wires of the communications panel into some sort of working order.
“Damnit!” The wires sparked in his face, and he pulled back singed fingers.
He glanced back at the navigation computer, adjusted the course heading—damn thing kept drifting off track—and tried to plug in the secondary communication system. Nothing: totally shot.
He dragged out one of the bags he’d snatched from their room—Chekov’s—and pulled out the disguised tricorder. Perhaps with this, he could piece together a way to tell the Enterprise to come beam him off this death trap of a shuttle.
He checked the course heading and made another correction, and that was about the time the landing gear caught fire.
--
Chekov lay writhing on the floor at Camlich’s feet. Although there had been no aphrodisiac in the injection Sulu had given him, he knew all too well what such a drug felt like, and he had no qualms about playing up the symptoms.
From his perspective, he could see Luka still kneeling beside Camlich’s chair, eyes carefully averted from Chekov. He could also see McCoy leaning casually against the wall, chatting with Camlich and looking for all the world as if he were perfectly comfortable in the company of killers.
“She’s actually the one who passed along the rumors of what you were looking for. It was my dumb luck that I acquired him,” McCoy was saying.
“At least you had the wisdom to use your assets well, doctor,” Camlich replied. “Still, I’d like to verify what I have. My steward should be back any moment with—Ah yes, here he is.”
Chekov saw another figure pass between him and the fire: this one short and squat, wearing some sort of dark-colored robe. He pointed a tool and Chekov’s collar, which beeped in response.
“Yes…” The steward said as he stood. “This slave was last purchased on Bussar. Yes… Yes, he was first collared by the Usite band out of Kar’golath. It’s the correct stardate.” He turned the display to show Camlich.
“Oh, delightful.” Camlich came to stand over Chekov. Luka, pulled by the lead attached to his collar, followed. “We’re going to have such a lovely time together, you and I. You know, you’re a pretty matched pair. The two of you should be the poster children of the Federation, and here you are, at my feet.”
Chekov curled up on himself, and Camlich bent down to ruffle a hand through his hair.
“Doctor, you have made this a most profitable trip. I owe you a debt of gratitude.” Camlich rose and turned to McCoy.
“It was no more than your due, Viceroy.” McCoy bowed, which looked unnatural to Chekov, as if it might upset the balance of the universe.
“And if you say that Lady Mihran had some hand in making this come to pass, well, I suppose I shouldn’t turn away as crafty an ally as that. Steward, go inform Lady Mihran that she’ll be accompanying us. And arrange accommodations on board. We’ll be leaving shortly.”
Camlich pushed his boot against Chekov’s shoulder to turn him over on his back. Chekov clawed at his chest, remembering the painful feeling of too-tight skin that being drugged could cause.
“Sorry, lovely boy. I just want to see what your dear doctor’s drug will do to you. I have no intention of enjoying your company until I have time to do it properly.”
Chekov shook his head frantically. He’d suffered through aphrodisiacs before that could drive a man mad with fever if he didn’t reach release; if McCoy was really the sadistic master he was playing, Chekov would surely be in for a painful day. Camlich smiled at his misery.
“In any case,” McCoy said. “I’m happy to mix up another batch whenever you’d like to use it on him.”
“Thank you, Doctor. You are a handy man to have around. Guards! Take these two on board and put them in a holding room. I’ll deal with them when I’m ready.”
--
Sulu had barely materialized in transporter bay two in the soot-covered remains of his skin-tight breeches when Kirk rushed onto the platform to hold him up. “What the hell happened?”
“They’re on his ship,” Sulu said. “The syndicate representative’s ship.”
Kirk’s face darkened. “Alive?”
“Yeah.” Sulu coughed through smoke-ravaged lungs. “For now.”
“Nurse! We’re going to get you to sickbay, Sulu.”
“No, no time. I’m alright for now,” Sulu said. When Kirk started to object, he said, “I can hold on as long as I have to.”
“Fine. Watkins, bring this man a uniform. We’re going to the bridge.” While they walked, Sulu gave Kirk a brief sketch of the events on the planet. After a quick stop to change out of his slave gear, Kirk led him on to the bridge, to cheers from his fellow officers.
“We’re glad Lieutenant Sulu’s back, but we’re not celebrating yet, people,” Kirk said. “We’ve got two officers to recover and a syndicate to bring down. Sulu, first things first, where are we going?”
“We have to pick up the signal and follow them,” Sulu said. “Just like we planned, keeping the minimum safe distance.”
“Wait, I thought you said McCoy and Chekov were trapped on that ship,” Kirk said.
“Not trapped, Captain. Or at least, trapped on purpose. Chekov used that organic tracking compound Scott gave us on himself.”
“Organic, what? Uhura, call Engineering, get Scotty up here. Spock, call battle stations.”
“Captain, we can’t go after them, guns blazing,” Sulu said.
“Why the hell not?” Kirk demanded.
“Because if we do, they’ll have given themselves up for nothing,” Sulu snapped. “Chekov got himself on board that ship so we could track it. If we stop them from getting where they’re going, we defeat the purpose.”
“We don’t have any idea where they’re going. It could take weeks,” Kirk said.
“I do not advise leaving Chekov alone with them for weeks,” Spock said.
“He survived a year as a slave without any assistance from us,” Sulu replied. “And he’s not alone. McCoy’s with him.”
“All the more reason to go after them. These people don’t strike me as the kind to keep prisoners alive,” Kirk said.
“They’re not prisoners. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“Their cover is intact?” Spock asked.
“Yes. Sort of. They know Chekov’s a Starfleet officer.”
“So their cover is not intact?” Spock asked.
“Yes, it is. They think he’s still memory-wiped,” Sulu explained. “They think he’s still who he is when McCoy bought him on Bussar. A captured Starfleet officer.”
“And they think McCoy is…?” Kirk prompted.
“A very clever owner who brought them a captured Starfleet officer.”
“Lieutenant,” Spock said. “From what we know of the syndicate, I don’t believe they’re likely to give gentle treatment to a slave they know is from Starfleet.”
“No, they’re not.” Sulu tried to block out the mental image of Camlich’s cruel, bored expression. “But Chekov knew that, and he went anyway. Captain, we have to give him some time.”
“He did this on purpose?” Kirk asked.
“Yes, sir.”
The bridge fell silent for a moment, save for the ping of instruments. Then Kirk nodded, his decision made. “Okay. Lieutenant Uhura, find that signal. McKenna, keep us in orbit for now. We don’t want to spook our quarry. Spock, put together a covert away team. I want them in a shuttle on their way to the surface of Ranii in an hour. We’ll need them to break up the festivities once this plays out. Make sure to include medical personnel and plenty of security. Sulu. Get cleaned up, have M’Benga check you out, then report to my ready room at thirteen hundred hours for a full debrief. Let’s do this, people.”
--
Chekov hurried to keep up with the blue-uniformed guard. He got the feeling that even Camlich's special attention would not earn him any lenience with the attendants here. The corridors of the ship wound strangely, in no discernable pattern. Chekov committed their paths to memory as he walked; when the time came to escape, any advantage might be crucial.
Luka trailed him by only a few steps. He hadn't spoken since Camlich had ordered them aboard the ship, but he avoided Chekov's eyes each time Chekov attempted to check on him. McCoy and Lady Mihran had gone with Camlich, but Chekov doubted her absence was the cause of Luka's discomfort. Rather, Luka seemed upset at Chekov himself. "Here." The guard stopped outside a door no different from any of the two dozen they'd passed on this straight corridor. It bore no number or label, simply a glyph-like mark on the dull grey surface of the door. The guard pressed his hand to the control panel and the door slid open to reveal a small, square room, entirely bare.
Luka went in first, eyes downcast under the guard's watchful gaze.
Chekov glanced behind them in the hallway. He'd thought he might be able to hide somewhere on the ship until they'd reached their destination and thus avoid Camlich's tender mercies. These guards, however, seemed highly trained, and more vigilant than Chekov had hoped. And then there was Luka. Chekov stepped inside the cell and tried not to shudder as the door boomed shut behind him. Faintly, he heard the footsteps of the guard receding into the distance.
Without looking at Chekov, Luka settled himself cross-legged on the hard floor, facing the corner. He settled his hands on his knees and closed his eyes. Chekov reflected that he'd never seen Luka meditate, but if he remembered enough Vulcan training to mind meld, he must certainly remember this as well.
Chekov inspected their prison minutely. The door had pressure sealed behind the guard, with no gap anywhere in its construction, and no control panel on this side. The walls, floor, and ceiling were the same grey synthetic metal as the corridor outside. A small hole the width of a finger marked the center of the ceiling, but it was too high up for Chekov to reach on his own, and without examining it further, he couldn't guess its purpose. The room contained nothing: neither waste disposal system, nor food, nor comfort of any kind. Camlich couldn't store slaves this way for a long journey; at least not if he wanted them in good condition. This must be a temporary holding cell, then. Perhaps Camlich wanted to impress that the two would receive no special treatment, despite their value, or perhaps he didn't see the point in wasting comforts on slaves he planned to kill. Chekov fervently hoped it wasn't the latter.
Examining the room took pathetically little time. Chekov stood near the doorway listening until his imagination started to get the better of him and he began hearing phantom sounds. He sat against the wall next to the door and retraced the route they'd taken from the transporter room to this cell. He was certain he could get off the ship that way if the need arose. Of course, the challenge would be getting out of here and making it to the transporter room unchallenged, and buying himself sufficient time to find a suitable place to go, assuming such a target existed within range. If he left, he would be abandoning the mission: the only tracking device he had was himself. That left one viable tactical option: keep Camlich believing he represented no threat.
The cold of the metal wall crept into Chekov's skin. The slave uniform that had seemed less than sufficient at the banquet now seemed even more unpleasant. Luka wore no more than he: simple cotton pants cut below the knee, with no shirt nor footwear. Chekov estimated they guard had left them over an hour ago. Camlich probably intended to make them wait much longer than a mere hour, and Chekov would prefer not to spend that time miserable and shivering.
He knelt next to Luka and placed a hand tentatively on his back, against skin that felt warm to the touch. Luka didn't respond. Chekov wondered if he was simply too deep in meditation to notice the distraction. He moved his hand to Luka's shoulder, and that's when Luka moved. Chekov found himself thrown onto his back. His head glanced painfully off the hard surface of the floor. Luka slammed Chekov's hands down to pin them at his sides, and knelt atop him, trapping Chekov's center of gravity beneath his own.
Chekov blinked up at Luka. His Vulcan calm seemed disintegrated; his eyes burned with emotion, and he bore his teeth in a terrible snarl. "Betrayer. Traitor," he growled. "Why have you done this to me?"
Chekov opened his mouth, but couldn't speak to answer for himself. He still didn't know how much Luka had learned through their meld, but he couldn't risk giving away that he was not who he claimed to be. He would have given anything to have a way to explain to Luka that he meant him no harm.
"I know you were planning something with that man who pretends to be your master. You could have gotten us away from that place. Now we are trapped. Lord Camlich is like no other master. Don't you know what you've done?" He shook Chekov as he spoke. "You have murdered us!"
Chekov tried to raise a hand, to soothe, to attempt an explanation.
"No!" Luka shifted his grip to pin Chekov's wrists together with one hand. The other hand encircled Chekov's throat. "Do not give me your pretty lies. You seemed so innocent and kind."
His hand pressed down against Chekov’s neck, cutting off his air. Chekov struggled, trying to unseat Luka, or pull his arms free, but he was far too weak. He could only beat his bare legs against the floor ineffectually. For a moment, Chekov feared his death. He'd seen a Vulcan out of control exactly once, and only the intervention of an elder had stayed Spock's hand. No one would save him from Luka. He squeezed his eyes closed and tensed, waiting for darkness to take him.
Then the pressure was gone. He gasped in air, and his eyes flew open. Above him, Luka held he shaking hands in front of him. He looked pale and suddenly seemed very young. "No. I am not like them. I am not like they want me to be." He scrambled off of Chekov and retreated to his corner of the room to fold himself up against the wall.
Chekov stay where he was for a moment, gulping in air, unsure if Luka’s dark mood would return. When Luka stayed curled in on himself, his concern for the young Vulcan overrode his fear, and he went to wrap his arms around Luka. To his mild surprise, Luka neither shrugged him off nor attempted to hit him. He relaxed marginally under Chekov’s touch.
“I apologize. I should not have attacked you. You are not to blame for our current predicament.” Luka uncurled a bit, and when he turned to look at Chekov, his eyes were halfway sane. “I do intend to survive this place, so if you know something I do not, I suggest that you explain.”
Chekov shook his head.
“I could help you show me the information, you know. I remember how to connect to another’s mind.”
Chekov gently tapped Luka on the forehead, then wiped his hand across his own brow.
Luka regarded him with a raised eyebrow.
Chekov snatched at the air and repeated the other two movements.
“Are you asking me a question?”
Chekov nodded slowly.
“You’re asking if my memories were tampered with when I was captured?”
Chekov nodded.
“Yes. Most other slaves I have encountered remember nothing before they were captured. I believe that my abilities afforded me a measure of protection. Were you memories altered when you were taken?”
Chekov nodded again.
“But you remember things beyond your time as a slave. I have seen memories of you somewhere else, without a collar. But you were with your master. How do you explain this?”
Chekov thought for a moment about how he could possibly convey his position, and how much he could tell Luka without endangering his mission. The room was almost certainly monitored; he couldn’t risk giving away information he didn’t want his enemies to have. At last, he shrugged helplessly.
“If you will not tell me, I can find out for myself,” Luka whispered. “I do not need your permission to touch your mind.”
Chekov frowned. He pointed to the door, then shook his head, then pointed at Luka.
“I am not like them,” he said sharply. “I am only attempting to survive in difficult circumstances. You know more than you are telling me.”
Chekov gathered his thoughts into one focused idea. He reached for Luka’s hands and gripped them tightly, holding the image in his mind of watchers: cameras, recording devices, yellow eyes of beasts that watched from the darkness of the woods.
Luka snatched his hands away. He looked up at the ceiling, where one small dot provided the only variation in their cell. He looked back at Chekov and nodded.
“We will talk later.” He turned back to the wall, then relented, and held out his hand to Chekov. “Do you want to keep warm?”
Chekov nodded gratefully. They wrapped their arms around each other, found a less uncomfortable position wedged against the walls in the corner, and dozed.
--
Kirk was fairly certain his current headache was due to stress. If McCoy had been here, he’d have bullied his friend into giving him some sort of medication to stave off the worst of it, but he didn’t want to bother M’Benga with such a trivial thing. Besides, his doctor, his friend was out there somewhere, and the job of finding him was starting to look difficult.
“You’re saying that we can’t track the tracking compound?” Sulu was asking. “Then what good is it?!”
“Neh, it doesn’t work like that,” Scotty said. “It’s not nearly powerful enough to emit a signal like a regular tracker would. More like it spools out a thin line behind it, that we can hold onto once we catch it. Luckily, we know what we’re looking for, so as soon as we catch one end off the signal, we shouldn’t be able to lose it again. Like a bloodhound catching a scent.”
“So how do we catch it?” Kirk asked.
“Well that part’s a wee bit tricky,” Scotty said. “The idea was that you’d be starting from where the compound was deployed. Picking up the scent from there.”
“Well we don’t exactly have time to beam down to the surface,” Kirk said. “Even if we could, we don’t want word to get back to the Viceroy that Starfleet is hunting him.”
“I think I can find it,” Sulu said.
“Lieutenant, I’m not sure you grasped what Mister Scott is attempting to explain,” Spock said. “The path of the signal—”
“Will be very difficult to find, I get it.”
Kirk looked closely at Sulu, who seemed to be listening to a faraway sound. “Sulu?”
“I have a feeling about this. Can I…?”
“By all means,” Kirk said. Having come up with no brilliant plan of his own in the last five minutes, he was certainly willing to give Sulu a chance. Sulu seemed to feel very confident about this idea, and Kirk of all people knew that good things could come of indulging hunches. They all trooped onto the bridge: Sulu looking faraway yet hopeful, Spock looking dubious, Scotty curious, and Kirk watching them all and withholding judgment, for once.
“Mister Sulu, you can take the helm.”
“Captain,” Spock said quietly. “You realize if we range too close to the fleeing vessel, we are likely to lose them entirely.”
“I understand that. But considering how long it took Sulu to make the rendezvous point in that beater of a shuttle, I don’t think we’re in danger of that quite yet.”
“As you say.”
Sulu sat down at the controls with a look of complete calm. “Engaging manual control,” he said.
Jumping out of autopilot could be a bumpy experience, but Sulu worked the helm with such a deft touch that Kirk barely felt the difference.
“Uhura,” Kirk said. “Keep a sharp ear out for that signal.”
“Aye, captain.”
Ranii loomed large in the viewscreen, then fell away as Sulu brought the Enterprise about. He took them out past high orbit range, and further still.
“Sir,” Spock said, quietly again, “a search pattern closer to the planet’s atmosphere would provide a greater chance of--”
“Shh,” Kirk said. “Let him try.”
Sulu closed his eyes, and seemed to be listening to some inner voice as he worked the controls.
“Captain,” Spock said.
“Yes, Mister Spock.”
“Our pilot seems to be flying with his eyes closed.”
“Yes, Mister Spock.”
“Do I need to point out the reasons why this is unadvisable?”
“No, Mister Spock.”
“There,” Sulu said, and opened his eyes.
“Captain!” Uhura called. “I think I have it.”
--
McCoy cursed under his breath as another guard walked by. He took the opposite corridor, and was hopelessly lost again. At this rate, he was never going to find where they’d taken Chekov. He took another branching path at random. To his dismay, this turn brought him face to face with Lady Mihran.
“Doctor! What a pleasant surprise. I wanted to speak with you.”
“Wonderful,” he muttered, but he plastered on a polite smile and went to walk beside her.
“Camlich’s guards told me you seemed to be wandering aimlessly, so I thought you might like some company.” She extended her hand to take McCoy’s arm, and he allowed it.
“Usually I prefer long walks on the beach,” McCoy said, “but I take whatever walk I can get.”
“You’re a strange man, Doctor.” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Tell me something. First you deliberately undermine me in front of Camlich, then you tell him that bringing your Starfleet boy to him was all my idea, and all but insist that he bring me along. You’re certainly not the bumbling political novice you play at seeming. Who are you really?”
“Just a simple country doctor. And now I’m a simply country doctor with at least two powerful friends.”
“Hm.” She tossed her hair and let it fall down to hide her face, but not before he’d seen her pleased smile. “I was just headed down to the slave quarters to examine Camlich’s stock,” she said. “Shall we walk that way?”
“Sounds even better than the beach.”
Mihran steered them through a series of complicated turns that McCoy gave up trying to memorize after his mental map doubled back on itself. Twice.
Meanwhile, Mihran kept up her cheerful monologue about Camlich’s slave stock. “He does get first pick of anything traded at the festival, so I’m sure he has some of the most unusual finds. I quite enjoy seeing the more unusual slaves. I know your tastes run to the exotic as well. I mean, a mind-wiped Starfleet officer and a guardsman to take care of him. Whatever happened to your guardsman, anyway?”
“I told you, you can’t buy them, only pay their contract. When I sold Pasha, his contract was severed, so now ‘Karu will go back to the guild for reassignment.”
“How strange not to truly own a slave that serves you. I wouldn’t want someone that close to me whose loyalty I couldn’t control completely.”
And that, McCoy thought, was yet another reason he had trouble keeping his meals down when he was with her.
Either Mihran’s sense of direction far eclipsed McCoy’s or she’d been given some sort of tour, because she unerringly found her way to a guarded door in a part of the ship McCoy hadn’t seen before.
The uniformed guard at the entrance nodded to each of them in turn, then punched a code into the control panel. The door slid open noiselessly.
Two more guards stood stationed inside the door, and one of these fell into step behind McCoy and Mihran as they stepped out onto the narrow walkway that ran along the wall overlooking the slave barracks. The open space inside the chamber rivaled one of the Enterprise’s cargo bays. From their vantage point, McCoy had a clear view of the slaves—more than a hundred, he estimated. Sleeping units seemed to be set into the floor, and many were occupied by slaves in tight gray pants, some of which had other clothes or accessories, some not. A table with benches ran the length of the far wall. Some slaves sat there, huddled together, apparently talking. Others sat or stood around the room in small groups.
At the sound of McCoy and Mihran’s footfalls on the metal walkway grating, an immediate silence seized the room. Slaves glanced up, then quickly averted their eyes.
Mihran leaned over the railway, peering down. “Aren’t they precious?” Her voice echoed, over-loud in this silent tomb of a barrack. “A smorgasbord of delicious possibilities. The Viceroy told me that we’re welcome to their hospitality for the duration of the voyage.”
“Right. Great.” McCoy carefully scanned the crowd of slaves, but didn’t see the one curly blond head he was looking for.
“You’ve probably been spoiled having just one slave for this long, haven’t you?” she asked. “You’ve gotten lazy with never having to explain what you want and knowing all the things that make your boy beg and love you for it.”
“It is… convenient.” McCoy tried very hard not to think about the ticklish spot on Chekov’s right side that never failed to set him laughing and swatting at McCoy. He wanted Chekov in his arms again, wanted it so badly he ached with it.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure either they’re still getting your boy settled, or he’s with Camlich. Either way, I’m certain he’s being seen to,” Mihran said. Both prospects sounded equally unappealing to McCoy. “Besides, Doctor, variety is the spice of life. Let me show you the fun that can be had with a new toy.”
“Perhaps another time,” he said, and smiled grimly at the dimming of the fierce pleasure in her eyes. “I have some other business to attend to.” He left the room, dragging behind him the guilt of knowing Mihran certainly wouldn’t leave until she found a victim for her pleasure.
--
“Honesty,” said Sulu, “I have no good explanation.” His head felt perfectly clear, aside from a rising tide of anxiety that probably came from being cross-examined by the rest of the senior bridge crew, or possibly was a lingering side-effect of nearly burning alive in a shuttle fire.
“But that,” Scotty said. “That was like picking a needle out a haystack using a ship. A ship that has no opposable thumbs, by the way. Shouldn’t have been possible.”
“I agree that it seems unlikely to be a coincidence,” Spock said. “Mister Sulu, can you describe again how exactly you pinpointed the signal?”
“It’s a thing that’s kind of been happening,” Sulu said slowly. When the others looked at him with varying degrees of incredulity, he sighed, and tried to formulate a better—a more scientific—explanation. “When we were on the planet, I developed this awareness of Chekov. I could tell if he was in pain, that sort of thing.”
“Like an empathic connection,” Spock said.
“You’re saying you suddenly developed empathic abilities?” Kirk asked.
“I’m not saying anything! I’m just telling you what happened. I could sense things that happened to him. I woke up, that last morning, when he was planning to run off on his own, and I knew I had to follow him. I don’t know why.”
Kirk suddenly leaned over the table for a better look at Sulu. “You’ve been on board how long, now? Six hours? Eight?”
“Something like that,” Sulu said. “Why?”
“Why haven’t you taken your collar off?”
“I did.” But Sulu brought his hand up to his throat, and felt the warm weight of it around his neck. “Okay, I thought I did. That’s odd.”
“Didn’t you say that the guardsman who came to visit here gave you that collar?” Kirk asked.
“Let me see it,” Scotty said, crowding closer.
“I don’t think I want to take it off yet.” Sulu pulled away from Scotty’s prying hands. “Not until we get them back.”
“That’s irrational,” Spock said. “A mere accessory has nothing whatsoever to do with Doctor McCoy and Ensign Chekov’s return.”
“It just seems like I shouldn’t take it off.” Now that he realized he still had it on, Sulu felt a bit ill when he thought of removing it.
“Wait a second,” Kirk said. “I have an idea. Come on, Sulu.” He rose, and Sulu followed reluctantly.
“Where are we going?” Sulu asked when they’d made it to the corridor.
“Sickbay.”
Sulu stopped abruptly. “I don’t need—”
“Now,” Kirk said, and kept walking.
“Why--? Oh, never mind.” Sulu followed his captain.
When they made it to sickbay, Kirk flagged down Nurse Chapel. “Nurse, can you take a look at this for me?” He motioned Sulu forward and pointed to his collar.
Chapel looked at the collar, then up at Sulu, then back at Kirk. “It’s a collar,” she said, with a look that clearly said she doubted Kirk was qualified to be captain.
“Yeah, got that part,” Kirk said. “Can you, I don’t know, scan it or something?”
“Scan it,” she said slowly.
“Medically scan it. With a medical thing.”
“Lieutenant?” she turned to Sulu.
“I think he has a hunch,” Sulu said helpfully.
“You’re sure this isn’t something an engineer should be doing?” she asked.
“Humor me,” Kirk said.
Chapel went to retrieve a medical scanner from the counter, muttering, “I hope McCoy gets back soon.” But she pointed the scanner. Then she frowned. “Bizarre.”
Kirk gave Sulu his best “told you so” look.
“The collar itself has a brainwave pattern,” Chapel said. “It looks like something psi-sensitive, like a Betazoid.”
“Psi-sensitive?” Sulu said. “You’re saying the collar’s sentient?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Chapel said. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“So it could be imparting some sort of empathic link,” Kirk said.
“It’s not really my area.”
“Maybe it’s enhancing latent psychic abilities of some sort?”
“Captain, I’m running out of euphemisms for ‘I don’t know.’”
“Right.” Kirk strode over to the wall panel and comm’d the bridge. “Uhura?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“I need you to contact Vhatos Rho. We need to know what the hell his friend gave Sulu.”
--
Chekov woke up to the door of their cell creaking open. Two uniformed guards stood at the doorway. “Come.”
Luka untangled himself from Chekov and stood first. Chekov followed more slowly, wincing at unfolding joints grown stiff with cold.
One guard led the way, the other followed the two slaves as they made their way through monotonous corridors that branched and twisted until Chekov was sure the architect of the Viceroy’s ship had been mad. At last they opened a door—again, marked only with a single glyph—and shooed the two inside.
Two slave women in drab gray uniforms and plain black collars stripped them efficiently. The guards stood by, leaning against the wall and leering, but the women expressed as little interest in the two as if they had been dumb animals. They shoved both Luka and Chekov under a spray of cold water and scrubbed them down with coarse clothes. Chekov hissed as one woman scraped carelessly over the wounds on his back, and Luka shot the woman such a hard look that she backed off immediately. The whole operation was accomplished with impersonal, silent efficiency.
While they were drying down Luka, one of the women pushed Chekov to his knees, produced a pair of clippers, and began efficiently shearing his hair. He kept his eyes trained on the ground, watching his curls drift to the damp metal floor. McCoy loved to twirl his hands through Chekov’s hair; he was always saying how soft it was, how he loved the smell, the feel of it.
A sudden movement grabbed Chekov’s attention, as Luka shoved the woman attending him. She stumbled back but stayed on her feet. The nearest guard stepped quickly forward and slammed his fist into Luka’s belly with a sickening thud. Luka fell to his knees, gasping, and the guard crouched beside him with a firm hand around the back of his neck. “Behave,” he said warningly.
When the woman approached Luka with her cutters, Luka tried to scramble away again, but the guard drew back a foot to kick him, and Luka quickly stilled. He clasped his hands on his thighs until his knuckles turned white, as the woman cut away lock after lock of his thick black hair, shearing him right down to the scalp. When she finished and moved away, Luka was shaking. With his pointed ears so exposed, his face looked even younger; he seemed more naked than Chekov had ever seen him.
Then the women led them into the next room, where one of the women picked up a long metal tool with a circle at the end about the size of Chekov’s palm. He knew he’d seen such a thing before, but couldn’t place where. Then the guards pressed Chekov against the wall face-first. The woman holding the tool stepped up behind him and pressed the circle into the skin of his shoulder. He had a split second to remind himself he must not scream before the pain hit him.
The brand’s burn seared through him like a roaring fire. He jerked forward, smashing his head against the wall, and found the dull ache a pleasant distraction from the screaming burn of the brand. The smell of burning flesh hit him a moment later, threatening to turn his stomach. The brand was pulled away, the guards released him, and he slumped to the floor, unable to catch himself.
Luka’s scream and the guards’ cursing seemed to come from very far away. Then Luka’s cry turned from angry defiance to a more desperate pitch: the sound of an animal caught in a trap. Chekov tried to pull himself up, but his body wouldn’t obey him, couldn’t obey him. Everything seemed to be shutting down around him.
When he woke up, he felt blessedly numb. The woman who’d washed him was rubbing some sort of cool ointment into his shoulder. They must have given him a pain killer, because he couldn’t feel the brand, or the wounds from the whip, at all.
“Rest now,” the woman said. She pointed to a blanket rolled out along the wall of this room: somewhere new altogether. Chekov looked around quickly. It took him a moment to recognize the shivering, naked wretch sitting curled on a blanket as Luka.
“Tonight you will be with the others, but you must regain your strength,” the woman said. “We will bring you food later.”
Chekov waited until she left, leaving them in semi-darkness. A glowing panel in the room’s ceiling gave plenty of light once his eyes adjusted. He dragged himself unsteadily to his feet and went to check the door. As he’d expected, there was no control panel, and no way out.
Chekov walked over to Luka, who sat with his legs drawn up to his chest, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He knelt beside him for a moment, just listening and watching him. When Luka didn’t move, Chekov touched his arm. Luka pulled his hands away from his eyes and shook his head. “Do you know the history of our people?” he asked.
Chekov cocked his head to the side. It wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. He held his hand and rocked it side-to-side for “sort of.”
“We share a common ancestry with the Romulans. We chose the path of the philosopher Surak, to conquer our emotions and embrace logic, and they… did not.”
Chekov nodded: yes, he knew that.
“We are much the same, beneath the surface. Vulcans do feel emotions, deeply. We simply choose to control them.” He slid closer to Chekov, and leaned his head against Chekov’s shoulder. “I feel such anger, Pasha. I cannot control it. They are taking away everything that makes me Vulcan, and turning me into something else.”
Chekov wrapped his arms around Luka and held him close as the Vulcan clutched at him, taking deep breaths and trying to hold down his panic. Chekov wished he dared tell him that everything would be alright, that he shouldn’t give up.
“They’ve already found a way to erase everything you were. I cannot let them do that to me.” He grabbed Chekov by the shoulders and whispered in his ear, “Help me find a way, and I will end this misery for us both.”
Chekov shook his head frantically. He couldn’t let Luka even consider that, not when he was part of the reason Luka was here. He pulled Luka’s hand to his head, and opened his mind.
”I am a Starfleet officer.” The bridge swam in his vision: the shine of the instruments, and the gleam of the endless frontier of stars beyond. “The Federation sent me here. Even now my ship is pursuing us.” The Enterprise cut through space, the stars a blur around her. “They will find us, and they will stop Camlich and his allies.” Kirk held phaser, firing with deadly aim. “We only have to wait a little longer.”
Luka pulled away, gasping. Chekov waited for him to attack, to berate him for letting this happen, to question why he had allowed innocent bystanders to get caught up in this madness. Instead, Luka breathed in deeply, and let out a long, slow breath. He looked calm for the first time since they’d been brought aboard.
“Come on.” Luka wrapped his arms around Chekov again in a pleasantly warm embrace, and they lay down together on the thin blanket. “We will wait a little longer.”
--
Uhura found herself once again confronting the wrinkled face of the ancient Doctor Vhatos Rho, this time with his companion, the guardsman Jhellain, on the vid screen. Kirk and Sulu sat beside Uhura at the table.
To their credit, Rho and Jhellain didn’t pretend not to know why she had contacted them.
“The collar works as an empathic implant, allowing the guardsman to monitor his ward more closely,” Rho explained. “It also ensures that he will continue to value his ward’s safety.”
“However, it only works if the person in question either already has an emotional connection to his ward, or the capacity to develop one,” Jhellain added. “You could never ward someone you hated, for example. That is why the guild is solely responsible for identifying potential guardsmen and assigning them wards.”
“Apparently Jhellain was correct in her judgment that you were capable of forming an emotional connection to your ward, Mister Sulu. Correct in spades,” Rho said with a raised eyebrow.
Uhura started to ask a question about that, but Sulu cut her off.
“When we were together on the planet, I could sometimes feel strong emotions from Chekov. If he was in danger, or something. Would I still be able to feel that, from this distance?” Sulu asked.
“Perhaps,” Jhellain said. “Distance does tend to mute the effect of the empathy.”
“Well, what about this bloodhound thing Sulu did,” Kirk piped up. “Could we find Chekov with it? Could the connection be used that way?
“If it was strong enough,” Rho said. He glanced at Jhellain, who nodded. “The emotional connection would have to be very robust, and probably built up over time.”
“Will it only work for me?” Sulu asked. “I mean, it’s not keyed to my DNA or anything, is it?”
“No, not exactly. You won’t be able to change who the connection is already built with, if that’s what you mean. Your ward remains yours until one of you dies.” Rho made a sign against evil.
“I mean Doctor McCoy,” Sulu said. He glanced at Kirk. “If I gave it to him, his connection to Chekov might expedite finding him once you beam aboard.”
“Are you sure it will work for him?” Uhura asked.
Jhellain looked at Sulu. “What do you think, Mr. Sulu? You know the requirements. Does Doctor McCoy meet them?”
Uhura thought back to the questions Sulu had described: if he would risk his life for another, if he had ever been in love. And the vow: All that has been taken from him, I restore.
“Yes,” Sulu said without hesitation. “Yes, he does.”
“Then,” Rho said, “he just might have a chance.”
--
The women, escorted by three guards, had moved Chekov and Luka to the slave barracks that afternoon, and outfitted them with the same drab gray pants as all the others. They’d been fed, bathed again, and given another injection that chased away the pain of their still-raw brands. Chekov hadn’t had any time more alone to try to communicate with Luka, but since Luka had made no move to alert the guards to a spy in their midst, Chekov continued to trust him.
The rest of the slaves kept away from them, scampering away whenever Chekov or Luka got too close, as if they might carry some plague. After being snarled at or ignored by almost every other slave in the barracks, they found an unoccupied sleeping mat in one of the recessed alcoves, and lay down together. Neither of them slept, but they held each other for comfort, united together against the pain of the outside world.
When the door on the upper level hissed open, and boots echoed on the walkway above, all the slaves froze like mice under the gaze of a hunting hawk. Taking their cue from the others, Chekov and Luka held very still.
“Those two,” said a voice from on high.
Chekov sat up immediately and looked to the walkway. McCoy stood pointing down at them from the upper level. His heart leapt, but he immediately schooled his expression into neutrality. Though McCoy seemed to be alone, someone could still be watching.
A guard stationed by the door on the lower level came to drag Chekov and Luka out of their bed and push them toward a smaller door Chekov hadn’t noticed before. This one led down a narrow corridor. At the end, a door opened onto a small room stocked with a crude biobed and several sealed cabinets. After a moment, McCoy appeared in the doorway.
“You can go,” he told the guard.
The guard didn’t move. He jutted his chin out at Luka. “That one fought. He’s dangerous.”
“I think I can handle two slaves,” McCoy said with an impressive amount of venom. “Stand outside. I’ll call if I need your assistance.”
Looking pained, the guard stepped outside and shut the door behind him.
McCoy’s eyes flicked up to the ceiling, then around the room. At last, he looked at Chekov and raised an eyebrow.
Chekov didn’t see any obvious places for cameras or recording devices, but he didn’t know what kind of advanced technology the syndicate possessed. He’d rather not gamble, so he shrugged helplessly.
McCoy’s face fell, but he nodded. “I’ve been ordered to prepare you to entertain tonight. The Viceroy wants to sample his new wares.”
He turned around to drop his med kit on the counter. Out of the corner of his eye, Chekov saw Luka poised to strike, and stepped in front of him. He grabbed Luka’s wrist and concentrated on the picture of McCoy in a Starfleet uniform, and the feeling of safety and home that came every time he crossed Chekov’s mind. Luka looked between Chekov and McCoy, nodded, and backed down.
McCoy turned around and made a strangled sound.
Chekov whirled to see what he was looking at, but McCoy caught his arm and turned him around again. “Is this a brand?”
Chekov winced. He’d almost forgotten about it: the pain reduced to a numb throbbing thanks to whatever they’d dosed him with. He couldn’t see the mark, but judging from the state of Luka’s, his own couldn’t look pretty.
“Damn fools around here,” McCoy muttered. “Liable to get infected, and then where would they be? Pasha, stand still. Luka, go lie facedown on the table. You’re next.”
McCoy cleaned the wound and taped a bandage over it. “A dermal regenerator would heal this much faster,” he explained softly. “But I don’t think that’s what the Viceroy is going for.”
Chekov nodded his understanding.
He watched as McCoy gave Luka the same treatment, all while trying to touch him as little as possible. Luka kept his eyes closed tight, as if waiting for a blow that never came. At last, McCoy turned back to Chekov. He settled a hand on his shoulder and allowed them both a moment of indulgence by kissing Chekov’s forehead. “You hurt anywhere else?” he asked.
Chekov shook his head. McCoy turned him around and pressed his hand to an unmarked spot on Chekov’s back. “Whip marks are healing up okay. You’ll need another round with the dermal regenerator soon, to make sure they don’t scar.”
Chekov nodded. He wanted to tell McCoy that they would be alright, that they would surely be back on the Enterprise in a few days, but he wasn’t sure of that himself. Here in this cold, sterile room, the Enterprise seemed like a faraway fantasy that belonged to another life.
“Luka, are you hurt at all?”
Luka froze, perhaps startled at being addressed. He dropped his eyes immediately to the ground. “No, sir.”
“Good. There’s one more thing.” He let go of Chekov. “The Viceroy says we’ll be reaching our destination tonight. He wants to… celebrate. He asked me to administer the same drug I did before. To make sure that you… enjoy tonight’s festivities.” He glanced at Luka. “I told him I couldn’t risk giving the drug to a Vulcan, as I had no idea what it might do to someone of your physiology. When I said you might die of an allergic reaction, he figured it was best that you go without. So no injection for you.” He nodded to Chekov. “I’ll just get that mixture put together.”
He punched a code into a small panel by one of the locked cabinets, and it popped open to reveal a row of meticulously labeled containers. McCoy took a hypospray from his med kit and fumbled about with it.
Chekov watched the whole operation, thinking that someone who was unfamiliar with McCoy’s meticulous attention to detail while working might be fooled by his pretense of putting together an aphrodisiac, but Chekov knew better. If there was any medicine at all in that hypospray, Chekov would be surprised.
McCoy turned around with the hypospray and a determined look. “Ready?”
Chekov couldn’t be sure what Camlich had in mind for him and Luka this evening, but he’d lay odds that it wasn’t pleasant. Chekov thought of what he had done before, feigning a drug-induced stupor, but fully aware of Camlich’s every sadistic grin as he watched Chekov squirm. He shook his head emphatically.
“What?” McCoy said.
Chekov went over to the cabinet, glanced over the bottles quickly, and found a likely looking one. He tapped the bottle on the shelf, then the hypospray in McCoy’s hand, and pointed to himself.
McCoy lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m not giving you a mind-altering drug.”
Chekov closed his eyes and dug inside himself for a way to make McCoy understand. He came up with nothing. He just opened his eyes and looked up at the man he loved. He wanted to say he couldn’t do this alone. He wanted to ask for help. He wanted McCoy to save him.
McCoy reached out and brushed his fingers against Chekov’s cheek. He knew. He understood. He would do anything to take this pain away from Chekov.
McCoy quickly turned back to the counter. He drew down two of the containers from the cabinet, mixed a compound, and loaded it into the hypospray. “You’ll have a few hours before the main effects take hold,” McCoy said as he worked. “It’ll last a few more hours after that. Just… Drink fluids, if you can.” He met Chekov’s eyes again, and received a nod before he pressed the hypospray against Chekov’s neck.
The drugs hit Chekov’s system like a slow-motion wave. He spent a moment washed out past the shores of his consciousness before being carried back to reality.
McCoy was packing up his med kit. He closed up the cabinets, took one last look around the room, and nodded to Luka. He pulled Chekov in by the neck and kissed him quickly. “See you soon.” He pushed open the door. “See, was that so hard?” he sneered at the guard. Then he was gone.
Previous Part
Master Post
Next Part
