Ganzar Chapter One

"You're going to be a what for who?" tears of laughter were streaming down Lieutenant Kathy Hiroto's face as she sat in Deck Five's Officer's Lounge on the U.S.S. Enterprise.

"A bodyguard," Chekov explained, feeling a red glow creeping up his cheeks, "for him."

Him, in this case, was Commander Ammarsingh Ghyka, a Special Intelligence officer on detached duty to the Enterprise. He sat across the lounge from Chekov and his two luncheon companions discussing the final preparations for his mission with Mr. Spock. Ghyka was a tall, strongly-built black man who made a standard-issue Star Fleet uniform look like it was a costume specially designed to show off his impressive physique to picturesque advantage.

"Honey," Lt. Uhura said, pulling Chekov in close. "You guard that body and you guard it well. I'm going to hold you personally responsible for seeing nothing happens to it and it gets back for me to look at as soon as possible."

"Oh, yes," Hiroto seconded fervently, then added as Ghyka rose, turned his back to them, and bent to point out some detail to the Science Officer. "Oooooh, yes."

Chekov crossed his arms sullenly. "It's not exactly the most flattering assignment I've ever had."

The mission was to the unaligned planet Ganzar. It lay strategically in territory between space claimed by the Federation, the Klingons, and the Orions. Ganzar had several distinct disadvantages, though. The planet was rich in ginzite, a sustenance that emitted low band radiation that, while harmless to lifeforms, played havoc with sensors and transporters.

The civilization that populated the temperate region of the most populous continent was matriarchal. That wouldn't have bothered the Federation at all if the society hadn't chosen to view men as private property to be bought and sold. The official government also had the annoying habit of looking the other way when male alien visitors were abducted and sold as slaves. Many such victims were eventually recovered, but a significant number had never been found.

The logical solution was to compose all-female contact teams to Ganzar, but the Ganzarites quickly countered by enacting a law that forbid all alien females from the planet and made it legal to kill any found on sight. The Federation's next best alternative was the one they were currently using. The Ganzarites usually abducted men who were dark-skinned and over six feet tall. The Ganzarites were a dark-skinned humanoid race and ethnocentricly preferred aliens that looked like them. They took only big men because slaves were primarily used as laborers in the barbran fields.

Barbran was the single most important crop on this particular continent. The Ganzarites used it in every way possible. The sap was used as medicine. The fibrous interior was woven into everything from clothes to buildings material. The hard stalks of the plant were used instead of wood. Harvesting it was slow, back-breaking work, somewhat like harvesting sugar cane. The Ganzarites had found that few would do it of their own free will.

Bearing in mind Ganzarite preferences, teams to Ganzar were now made up largely of men like Chekov and Captain Kirk, their chief negotiator for this mission, who were small and light-skinned. Special Agent Ghyka was a purposeful exception to this rule. It was hoped he'd make far too tempting a target to resist. Once abducted, Intelligence believed he'd be in a better position to investigate some rather disturbing evidence of covert Klingon presence on the planet. Ghyka was linked to Chekov and two other Enterprise men, Ensign Davis and Lt. Johnson by subcutaneous directional indicators. While Kirk carried on negotiations, this small team of bodyguards was to follow the Intelligence agent's progress through Ganzar's slave trade network and see to it that Ghyka didn't become one of those miserable few who hadn't lived to see their ships again.

"If those xenophobic Ganzarite bitches don't want you, Chekov, then it's just their own bad taste." Lt. Hiroto patted his arm soothingly.

"Yeah," Uhura concurred, coming gallantly to his defence. "Sweetie, I'd abduct you any day... Well, at least any day that old Ghyka there wasn't available."

"Oh, yes." Kathy Hiroto sighed, Chekov once more forgotten as the special agent bent over to pick up a dropped stylus. "Oh, yeeesss."

"As many times as I've been someone's bodyguard, I've never actually had one myself," Commander Ghyka said as he stood looking positively Olympian in the hot sunlight of the crowded marketplace of Hikasha, the Ganzarite city where Captain Kirk was already meeting with top leaders of the matriarchy.

"I suppose there's a first time for everything, sir," Chekov replied amiably. Walking though the marketplace with Ghyka was like walking in a circus parade with the elephants. Crowds parted. Everyone stared. Admiring comments flowed freely. Chekov himself felt curiously invisible.

The two Star Fleet officers spoke to each other in Standard, but clearly understood the talk that was going on around them. Because each of them could potentially become a permanent resident of the planet, all team members had taken the precaution of taking a crash course in the local language. The testimony of former unfortunates indicated that captives were immediately deprived of anything that looked "off-worldish" and that life was very hard for a man who became separated from his universal translator and attached to an impatient owner.

Ghyka laughed. "What's the matter, Chekov? Are you afraid that when they go for me they'll grab you by mistake?"

"No, sir." Chekov smiled wanly, knowing that if this mission didn't put him in the psychiatrist's office with a severely crushed ego, nothing would. "I'm afraid this indicator is going to burn a hole through my arm."

The directional indicators both of them wore under the skin of their forearms were simple devices. When in close proximity to each other, they generated a warm sensation. When facing the wrong direction or separated by distance they grew increasingly colder.

Ghyka laughed again and gave Chekov a friendly slap on the back that nearly knocked the breath out of the ensign. "All right. We'll put a little distance between ourselves. Don't worry if you lose sight of me, but if I'm not at the checkpoint in an hour, coordinate with the others and begin to search."

"Yes, sir." Chekov squinted into the distance, scanning the marketplace for Johnson and Davis who were both somewhere nearby. "Take care of yourself, sir."

Ghyka's loud laugh rang out again as he advanced into the appreciative throng. "No, Ensign," he called out, his white teeth gleaming in a broad smile. "That's your job."

"Yes, sir." As the crowd closed behind the intelligence agent, Chekov discovered that he was no longer invisible. Women were still staring at him, but their gazes were not longer covetous. Many frowned. Some laughed rudely.

"Watch where you're going, you white-skinned alien freak!" the woman cursed him.

Before Chekov could construct a suitably vile reply, he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his shoulder. He quickly reached back and was surprised to find a feather-tipped dart sticking out of his upper arm. He was even more unpleasantly surprised to feel the unmistakable warmth of a powerful tranquilizer entering his bloodstream.

"Oh, no!" He pulled the dart out of his shoulder and searched for the recently departed intelligence agent. "Commander Ghyka!"

Unfortunately, the drug acted more quickly than he could. As his vision blurred and dimmed, he fell face first into what seemed to be a sea of women.

"I'm not doubting your intelligence, Captain," a red-headed Ganzarite leader was saying. "I just don't think any male can fully appreciate the necessities of our culture."

"Yes, I suppose you have a great deal of difficulty explaining them to your own males," Kirk replied with a sweet smile to cover his sarcasm. A signal from Yeoman Spears who was acting as his aide gave Kirk an excuse for a much needed break. "Ladies, if you will pardon me for a moment..."

While the Ganzarites shook their heads and clicked their tongues at what they perceived as male frailty, Kirk walked to a secluded alcove outside the meeting room where Spears handed him a coded message.

"Subject did not appear at checkpoint," the message stated tersely. "Search commencing. Johnson."

Kirk nodded favorably as he handed the message back for his yeoman to destroy. Five minutes ago, he'd received a similar message from Davis. The Ganzarites had taken the bait and things seemed to be going as planned. Only one small detail was amiss. Why hadn't he heard from Chekov?

The first thing that Chekov thought when he woke up was that his head felt like it was in a vice. When he opened his eyes, not only was what he saw completely unfamiliar, it made no sense. A bucket attached to the room's extremely low ceiling seemed to be hanging over him. Everything smelled like a strong disinfectant. After a second, he knew he had the scene upside down. The bucket was on the tiled floor. His head was positioned over it for some reason. When he tried to move, he came to the startling realization that his head felt like it was in a vice because it was in a vice. He was lying on his stomach on something flat and cold. He tried to move his arms and legs but they were held in place by restraining bands.

"This one's conscious," some woman who was near, but out of sight said. She spoke a Ganzarite dialect that Chekov understood, but with a broad midland accent that was a little out of place in Hikasha, a coastal city.

A pair of smallish feet clothed in native footgear walked into Chekov's extremely limited range of vision.

Someone picked up what sounded like a very large pair of scissors, lifted the bottom hem of his uniform tunic and began to cut. Chekov gasped involuntarily when the cold metal made brief contact with his bare skin.

"Tranquilizer, please," the second woman requested calmly as she slit his tunic into two halves. "Be sure you check the blood type and the dosage. This alien is a lot smaller than the last one. They may not be the same kind."

Just about the time that Chekov had become alert enough to say something, a hypo hissed against his back and he suddenly became too tired to speak. It occurred to him drowsily that the other alien they were talking about must be Ghyka. This was good, because even though Chekov had been captured, he was still near the man he was supposed to watch. He remembered that he could tell how close he was to the intelligence agent by the warmth or coolness of a certain spot in his arms.

Strangely enough, neither arm felt hot or cold. Both felt numb and slightly sore when he tried to move them -- sore in that peculiar way your arms always felt just after a subcutaneous device had been removed.

This realization was bad enough to pierce through his drug induced fog. "Oh, no," he moaned in Standard, "Oh, no."

An even worse thought followed as Chekov heard the sound of containers being opened and remembered a reason why he might be on his stomach in what looked and smelled suspiciously like a hospital. One of the reasons that Federation sources believed some advanced culture was meddling in affairs on Ganzar was that these women were suddenly leaping forward at an incredible pace in developing technology capable of subduing and inducing obedience in the men they captured.

Women of the temperate zone had been augmenting their supply of field workers with big men kidnapped from the nomadic tribes of the northern regions of this particular continent for centuries before the first contact team arrived. The time honored method of gaining compliance in these unwilling laborers had involved drugs and strict systems of punishment and rewards. The results were mixed. Slaves often ran away or revolted. Slave population was kept low. One woman rarely owned more than five men. Usually men were owned by families of women who had a certain percentage of men who were free and hired as servants and overseers. During the seventy-five years that followed the Federation's first contact, the balance had steadily changed in favor of the ruling matriarchy. First new and more powerful drugs had appeared. Next surveillance went from a haphazard process to the development of complex monitoring systems. Finally, in the last ten years -- with no other parallel in other branches of Ganzarite technology -- a hideous little thing they called "the device" began to show up. It was half organic, half mechanical. The organic half was a leech-like creature of unknown origin. It sent microscopic tendrils to seek out the spinal cord of its host and derive sustenance from the bio-electric impulses that flowed there. The mechanical half was a computer-like processing center that read the bio-electric impulses and could re-direct them according to an pre-programmed plan. In a way that Federation science could not explain or reproduce, this device could send irresistible sensations of pleasure or pain to its victims' brains on the cue of a word, sight, or touch.

"Oh, no." Chekov felt cold air on his back and hoped this was all a very bad dream. "Oh, no."

After the hypo hissed against his shoulder again, Chekov found it easier to accept that it was just a bad dream.

"Relax," the woman said soothingly as she put something clammy on his back. "Don't fight it and it won't hurt a bit."

With so much tranquilizer running through his system, he didn't have much choice. He felt a very peculiar sensation as if raindrops were falling through his skin under the clammy thing. It almost felt pleasant until the creature made contact with his spine.

"Noooo!" His body spasmed uncontrollably against the restraints. His head burst with unimaginable pain.

"Not another screamer," he heard one of the women sigh as the world went black again.

Chekov woke up. His pounding head felt like it was in a vice. He opened his eyes and saw an empty bucket that smelled like bile and disinfectant.

"He's back with us," a woman's voice said. The words were strange. Chekov wondered how he could understand them.

"Listen to me," another woman said. He could only see her shoes. It seemed to him he'd seen them somewhere before. "The device is now active. You must listen to the following: Never disobey a woman. Never think of harming a woman. Never think of the device on your back."

Chekov wanted to tell her that he never harmed women, but couldn't think of the right words. What was the device? He seemed to remember that it had something to do with the pain... and with his back... And he had to get it off! Suddenly the pain was more than a memory. It started again from the middle of his back and rode over him in a red-hot agonizing wave.

"This one is going to take a while," one of the women said wearily to the other, as Chekov surrendered to the pain and blacked out again.

Kirk knew the news was bad from the looks on Johnson and Davis' faces. He had suspected something was wrong as soon as they called him away from his dinner.

Instead of answering, Johnson held out his hand. In it were two flat round disks -- subcutaneous implants.

"Yes, sir. We found them forty-five minutes ago discarded into a ditch north of here."

Kirk turned the disks over with his thumb. "The Ganzarites should have no way of detecting..."

"Sir," Davis interrupted, holding out another handful of the same. "We found these too."

"Chekov. Dammit." Kirk bit his lip and shook his head. "Gentlemen, the trouble has just begun."

Chekov awoke to the sensation of a wet cloth scrubbing his face. When he jerked backwards, his head made violent contact with a wall behind him.

"Oooo!" the fat old woman holding the scrub cloth winced for him. "That's an unpleasant way to come back into the world, isn't it, laddie?"

Chekov looked at her blankly. He recognized nothing. His brain seemed to be malfunctioning. It wasn't giving him very much help in processing this new situation. For instance, who was this woman? She had a strangely shaped forehead and nose. Her skin was mustard-colored and she spoke a language that sounded unfamiliar even though he could understand what she was saying. What was this place he was in? It looked like a barn of some sort. The floor was dirt and what looked like farming implements leaned against the walls. More importantly, why was he tied up? His aching arms were tied to a hook in the wall above his head. His ankles were bound as well. There was even a gag in his mouth.

His mouth felt terrible. It was completely dry and tasted as if he'd been violently ill. When he tried to shift from hanging limply by his wrists to standing on his feet, needles of pain exploded in his arms and blood rushed painfully to his head.

"You don't feel very good, do you?" The fat woman asked jovially. She helpfully gave his arms and shoulders a brisk massage that helped get the blood flowing again and felt simply marvellous. "You don't smell very good either."

Chekov looked at her curiously. It didn't seem logical that a simple touch should feel so pleasant.

She laughed and wiped his neck and chest off with the damp cloth. "You've got pretty eyes, though, don't you? For a white-faced alien dwarf, you've got real nice eyes."

Chekov narrowed his nice eyes at what he knew was an insult. "Dwarf" seemed particularly unfair since he was perhaps an inch taller than she was.

"You understand me, don't you?" The fat woman grinned and patted his face roughly. "Well, aren't you the smart little thing? They said you spoke the language."

Chekov was wondering who "they" were and what language it was that he could speak when he heard a low moan. Down the wall from him, bound as he was, was a big, black man who seemed familiar. He was positive that he should know this man. He blinked twice, concentrating very hard, for it seemed very important that he should remember who this man was. Finally, his brain seemed to drop back into gear. He knew exactly who he was. He was Ensign Pavel Andreivich Chekov of the U.S.S. Enterprise. This man was Commander Ghyka of Special Intelligence. They were on the planet Ganzar to infiltrate the slave trade network -- which apparently they'd done all too well.

"Hey, now." The fat woman waddled over to Ghyka. "You're not supposed to be awake yet."

"Do you know what this is?" the fat woman asked Chekov as she moved back in front of him and held up the hypo. "Can you make this out?"

It took Chekov a moment to decipher the Ganzarite characters for the word "viska" -- a drug that would act like strychnine in a human system! He turned his head expecting to see Ghyka writhing in agony, but the intelligence agent was sleeping deeply.

The fat woman laughed. "So you can read, can you? Well, aren't you the clever thing?"

Chekov would have frowned at having been tricked so easily if the gag wasn't severely limiting his range of expression.

As the fat woman began to fasten up the front of his shirt, Chekov registered for the first time that he wasn't wearing his uniform. Instead he was dressed in a very simple version of the native attire. Ganzarites didn't use buttons or zippers. They preferred to leave cloth in a whole piece when possible. Ties were added to the material and passed through slashes to achieve the desired shape and fit. Although the weave of the green upper body garment and the brown pants he wore was coarse and unadorned, the ingeniously intricate way they were tied together made them quite decorative.

"Pretty soon a lady...." The fat woman paused, checked over her shoulder and lowered her voice. "Well, between you and me, she's no lady. She's an upstart Northerner who I hope has more money than good sense. At any rate, she'll be here any minute. And if she doesn't buy you... then this will be for you."

Chekov swallowed hard as the hypo labeled poison was held in front of him again.

"You understand that, don't you?" The fat lady nodded grimly. "However clever you are, I can't keep you, there's no one else to take you, and we can't send you back where you came from. So you mind your manners, laddie. Don't wriggle or make a fuss and don't talk except to say "Yes, ma'am" and "No, ma'am". If I have to..."

The fat woman was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. She gave Chekov's face one last swipe before she dashed to the other side of the room with surprising agility and assumed a pose so nonchalant it was easy to believe she'd been waiting like that for hours.

The woman who entered was younger, thinner, and taller than his captor. She had dark rose-bronze skin and red hair that she wore in a severe, elaborately braided coiffure. Her expression was none too pleased when she entered. When she saw Chekov, it deepened into a forbidding frown. "I hope you're not going to try to sell me that, Stah."

"Tarell," Stah, the fat woman, placated her client, "you asked for a small one..."

Tarell crossed her arms. "I know that. I also know the white ones are lazy and sickly."

"Well, you're not going to put a little one like this one in the fields." Stah moved beside Chekov and with a discreet fist in his back forced him to stand very straight. "And this one's very clever. He can understand the language, read..."

"Now, this is what an off-worlder should look like," Tarell interrupted, crossing to Commander Ghyka.

"Are we going to talk politics or do business?" Stah interrupted impatiently. "Now as I was saying, this one is well suited for your needs. He understands the language, reads..."

"You keep saying he understands the language." Tarell smiled humorlessly. "Doesn't he speak it?"

Chekov tried, but his mouth was so dry he couldn't make a sound at all at first. After several abortive attempts to clear his throat he managed to choke out a whispered, "Water... please."

"He's sick," Tarell concluded triumphantly as the fat woman hurried to retrieve something from a chest.

"No, he's not." Stah pulled out what looked like a baby bottle. She handed it to Tarell. "He just needs a swig of this. Here, give it to him."

Stah patiently put the bottle in her hand. "He asked you for it... and even said please. I tell you, he's a clever, well-behaved, little off-worlder. Exactly what you ordered."

Tarell gave her a dubious look, but then sighed and held the bottle out to Chekov. "Here."

Chekov could feel the color rising in his cheeks at the prospect of being fed like a zoo animal, but there seemed no other alternative to dying of thirst. He avoided the Ganzarite woman's eyes as he leaned forward and took a tentative pull on the bottle. It was filled with a sugar water solution that was a balm to his parched throat and even seemed to ease the pain in his throbbing head.

Tarell snorted, evidently not at all impressed by his looks. She abruptly pulled the bottle out of his reach. "Have you got any skills?"

"Uh, I..." Chekov was dumbfounded for a moment as he tried to calculate what would be counted as a skill on this planet. "Well, I can..."

"I'm a Star Fleet officer," Chekov replied, refusing to speak of his status in the past tense. "I work mainly as a navigator."

The Ganzarite woman squinted at this unfamiliar verbiage. "What's that? A sailor? What am I going to do with a sailor?"

"He means to say he's a machine worker." The fat woman smiled as she caught Chekov's eye and gave the pocket with the hypo of viska a significant pat. "That's what you meant to say, isn't it, laddie?"

Now it was Chekov's turn to puzzle over an unfamiliar use of language. "Machine worker" was not a Ganzarite phrase. It was an idiomatic way of saying "computer operator" taken straight from one of the major languages spoken by the Orions. "I have worked with computers, if that is what you mean."

"Computers." Tarell gave another snort as if she found the word unbearably pretentious. "Oh, he's a right little offworlder, isn't he?"

Stah shoved the bottle back into the ensign's mouth, apparently thinking it was better for business if he didn't talk. "But he can run that machine you bought. Do your accounts..."

"Listen," Stah said, taking the bottle back again and putting her hands on her hips. "I know he's as white-faced and offworldish as they come, but the yellow pills are going to work on him as well as they will on that black beauty over there. With them, he'll give you daughters and only daughters -- one or even two a year until you've had enough -- and that's guaranteed."

Chekov's eyes opened at this. Not only was he less than pleased at the prospect of being sold as breeding stock, he was also surprised that they could do so. Ganzarites were humanoid, not human. Although he and his would-be mistress might be able to copulate, he was certain the two races could interbreed only with special medical aid, if at all. These "yellow pills", if they worked as promised -- allowing conception between two dissimilar species and pre-determination of the gender of that offspring -- were far beyond anything the Ganzarites should be capable of producing. It occurred to him that such a drug was more likely to have been invented by those great interbreeders of alien races of all descriptions - the Orions.

"I don't want white babies," his prospective owner said flatly. "Even if they're girls."

"Tarell, you'd better take what daughters you can get, even if they're green," Stah said -- the soft-sell approach clearly discarded. "Because that man you're breeding with now isn't going to give you anything but sons. You're not getting a day younger and you're going to end up like your aunt Cella did, with no daughter to inherit. Your estate will pass to one of your sisters or some snot-nosed Northern niece who'll come down here and squander half what you own before she figures out which end is up."

Chekov felt his appointment with a hypo full of poison drawing closer as the silence between the two women thickened.

Tarell spat out a vile idiomatic phrase in her native Northern dialect. As close as Chekov could figure, it translated as having something to do with having sexual relations with a kitchen implement of some sort.

Stah, always the salesman, nodded Tarell towards Chekov. Although the other woman was obviously very angry, even she had to smile at the comical look of puzzlement on the ensign's face.

"All right, you old bitch," Tarell said, turning back to the fat woman. "I'll not give you more than five bits a pound for him."

"I don't sell men by the pound like they do up North," Stah said. "And I'm asking a full seven chips for him."

"Well, if you'd clean the dung out of your ears you'd realize I just offered you five and a quarter."

"I'll not take less than six and a half for him," the fat woman countered stubbornly.

"I'll not give more than five and a half and that much only because I might want to do business with you again in the future. Even if you don't sell men by the pound, I know you buy them by the pound. And you can't convince me you paid more then four and a third for this one. I'll give you five and a half so you can make back your expenses and have a little profit, but don't forget that I grew up selling men."

The fat woman sighed. "All right. Five and a half. But the food and medicine for him will bring it up to six and a quarter."

Tarell crossed her arms as Stah bustled over to get the bill of sale. "And how often am I going to be paying that?"

"Oh, this is the most you'll have to put out for that for awhile." Stah gave her a sheet to sign. "I'll have it delivered to you this afternoon."

Neither Chekov nor the other Ganzarite were pleased by the tenor of this statement.

"And what's that going to cost me?" Tarell demanded. "And how long would I have to wait? A reputable dealer would..."

"Do it yourself, then." Stah deftly untied the rope between Chekov's wrists and the hook above him and handed it to Tarell. "Take him. He's yours."

Sold at around three-quarters of his original asking price, Chekov now knew how a used hovercraft must feel. He watched the person holding a piece of paper that legally designated him as her property while she watched the fat woman untie his ankles.

"Excuse me, miss," he said, pointing as best as he could to the still unconscious Commander Ghyka. "But I was wondering if he will be..."

"Come on." His new owner cut him off with a forward jerk on the rope. "Stah, see that you get those supplies to me promptly. I'd hate to have this one starve to death before the ink dries on his bill of sale."

"Always a pleasure doing business with you, Tarell," the fat woman said ironically as she held the door open for them.

Chekov squinted in the bright sunlight as he was led outdoors. It was immediately obvious that he was far from the busy costal city where he'd been abducted. He was now in a small rural village, possibly in the midlands from the looks of it. Goat-like domesticated animals guided by burly native men pulled sleds of farm goods down the dirt street. In Hikasha, a prosperous trading center, many structures were made of stone. Here even the grandest dwellings had woven walls and thatched roofs stretched over wooden frames. Neat fences of stone or barbran stalks surrounded many of the houses.

Knowing that the "Aunties" or community leaders were the likely owners of such well-kept dwellings, Chekov wondered which of these fences Commander Ghyka was destined to end up behind.

He froze as Tarell turned to him with a less than pleased look on her face. For some reason, this seemed like a very bad thing. She took a step towards him and he took an instinctive step backwards in response. This made her laugh.

The Ganzarite pulled him forward by the shirt front until they stood only a few inches apart. Tarell was a tall woman, significantly taller, in fact, than the ensign. Chekov didn't usually let such things bother him. However under the circumstances, looking up at her made him distinctly uncomfortable. She smiled as she brushed his hair off his forehead in an unmistakably possessive gesture. "I do like your eyes."

"Thank you," Chekov said, fighting another blush and looking anywhere but into her eyes. For some reason it seemed incredibly exciting to have this complete stranger that he had no reason to like at all standing so close.

With one finger under his chin, she firmly tilted his head back so that he had no choice but to look at her. Pausing only long enough to let him realize that this was exactly what he was craving, she kissed him full on the lips. Waves of almost orgasmic pleasure travelled up and down his spine.

Chekov cleared his throat and tried to suppress the side of him that was arguing that winding up as breeding stock in an alien slave culture wasn't that bad a fate for a young Star Fleet officer. "It means I'm in a lot of trouble."

Chekov remonstrated with himself sharply as he meekly allowed himself to be led deeper into the heart of the alien community. Commander Ghyka was unconscious and stripped of any device that would allow the team to pin down his location. The entire mission was now in jeopardy. This was no time for Chekov to let his hormones get the better of him. Still it was very hard to consider doing anything that might make Tarell angry with him.

'Something's happened to my mind,' Chekov decided silently. 'They've done something to me to make me feel this way.'

Unfortunately knowing that didn't make it any easier to stop following the Ganzarite woman like a puppy on a leash. He had the vague feeling that he should know exactly how the Ganzarites had made him so compliant. However, trying to think of what they could have done to him to induce this sudden irrationality just gave him a terrible headache. He could now see how all those Federation men had become permanent residents. They weren't found because what the Ganzarites did to them made them not want to be found.

'Lt. Uhura is certainly going to be disappointed in me,' he sighed to himself sadly, remembering her strong desire to see Commander Ghyka again.

It seemed like a very terrible thing that he should fail to please her -- more terrible than the prospect of the mission collapsing and his deserting Star Fleet. The thought made him feel so uncomfortable and depressed that he felt he had to do something. He had to at least try to get Commander Ghyka back to the lieutenant.

Once resolved to take action, it was very easy to plan his escape. After all, the only thing he could see binding him to Tarell was a strange feeling of attraction and a length of rope that she held carelessly in one hand. Looking around he could see the street was almost empty -- no help for Tarell in sight.

Taking a deep breath, he planted his feet firmly and pulled backwards with all his might. The rope flew from Tarell's hand. Before she even seemed to notice, he turned and ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

"No!" He could hear her shout, as his feet pounded against the hard-packed dirt. "No! Stop!"

Hearing her say that made him want to stop very badly. Although he kept moving away from her, he could feel himself slowing. It was very hard to think -- very hard to decide what to do.

At the word "disobey" a terrible pain -- like a bolt of electricity -- shot though him. Temporarily stunned, he stumbled and fell.

Tarell was on him in a minute. "What in the name of fornication do you think you were doing?" she demanded, her breath coming in deep, angry heaves.

Chekov rolled over to face her. Seeing her upset made him feel terrible. His back hurt and his head ached. "I'm sorry," he said, not knowing why he'd done such and awful thing.

"Not as sorry as you're going to be," the Ganzarite promised grimly. She took the sash from around her waist and tied one end around each of his knees. She left enough slack between to allow him to take only small strides. After pulling him roughly to his feet, she took the loose end of the rope around his wrists and tied it around his neck, giving her a choke hold. "There," she said, pulling it to a snug fit. "Now do you think you can behave, or am I going to have to pick you up and carry you?"

"Yes... I mean, no.. I, I..." Chekov couldn't make himself meet her eyes. "I'm very sorry."

"Oh, you've not heard the end of this," she said, throwing the loop of rope between his neck and his wrists over her shoulder and taking a secure two-handed hold on it. When she set off once more on her way, he had to take awkwardly quick steps to keep up with her. "But I'm not going to let you make me lose my temper. All my reputation in this town needs is for someone to see me beating my servants in the public street. No, we'll wait until we're behind the gates of my own fornicating house and have a meaningful discussion about this little incident, just like a proper fornicating Southern lady would do."

Chekov was glad that her profanity was losing a little something in translation. "It's just that I really must..."

On the other hand, it wasn't losing that much. "Yes, ma'am," he replied obediently.

Just when Chekov thought he couldn't take another stiff-legged half-running half-sized step, they turned into the gate of one of the houses. Chekov was somewhat surprised to see that it was one of the finer and more elegant buildings with a well-crafted stone wall. He remembered the fat woman saying something about Tarell inheriting an estate from an aunt. Tarell's abrasive manner certainly didn't seem to indicate that she would be the owner of such a dwelling.

"Well, here it is," she said, releasing the latch on the front door with a small, square key. "Your new home."

The interior of the house was beautiful. The walls of the foyer were woven of strands of barbran dyed in hues of green and gold. The floor was made intricately patterned tiles of stained wood and cut stone.

"Well, I don't believe it," said a musical voice from a doorway to Chekov's left. "I see it, but I just don't believe it."

The woman in the doorway was obviously a relative of Tarell's. The family resemblance was unmistakable. Somehow, though, whereas Tarell was only handsome, this woman was beautiful. She was younger than Tarell, softer. Her eyes were light green and catlike.

"This is my sister, Sahshell," Tarell said, bending to untie his knees. "Obey her as you would obey me."

"Hello." Chekov smiled, forgetting for a moment that he was meeting this lovely woman as alien slave, bound hand and foot.

Sahshell smiled as she slid her long, green, cat's eyes over him appraisingly. "I don't know what Tirst is going to say about this one."

Tarell straightened and put her hands on her hips. "Tirst is only a servant in this house. It doesn't matter what he says. I didn't buy him for Tirst anyway."

"For myself." Tarell untied the rope from around his neck. "He can read, speak the language properly, run a machine... Proper ladies here are attended by private secretaries, not some stinking field hand with a Northern accent so thick I have to repeat everything he says."

Tarell ignored this as she loosened the rope around his wrists. "Besides, I got a good deal for him."

"Five and a half," Tarell admitted grudgingly as she handed her sister the bill of sale. "But this isn't the Vidon marketplace. You have to go through middlemen here... allow them a little profit."

"They don't sell men by the pound here." Tarell left Chekov free to rub the circulation back into his wrists while she wound the rope into a neat coil.

"That's a pity because this one would be a bargain at the going rate." Sahshell carefully perused the bill of sale. "Why did you agree to this?"

"You've agreed to buy supplies for him exclusively from Stah for the next four years."

This, Chekov knew, was a prime chance for him to make his exit. It was very hard to think of leaving, but he pacified these concerns by telling himself he was only going to check and see if the door was locked from this side.

Without turning away from the sisters, he walked his fingers up the door behind him searching for the latch.

"Ow!" he yelped in pain when his fingers finally met the cold surface of the doorplate. The metal seemed to be coated with acid. He held his stinging fingers in front of him, unable to believe that they showed no signs of damage or even of redness from the burning contact. After a moment, he realized that he had attracted some very unwanted attention. He looked up to find two similar pairs of displeased eyes upon him.

"I, I.." Chekov stammered in a panic. There was no place to retreat to. He tried to hide his offending member behind his back, but Tarell jerked his arm forward by his sleeve.

Sahshell crossed her arms. "I begin to see why you got such a good price on this one," she commented dryly.

"Did you try to open the door?" Tarell gave his arm a rough shake. "Did you touch the latch?"

"Well..." Chekov tried weakly to pull away from her. She wasn't any stronger than he was, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to use his full force. "Well, yes, but..."

"We put an end to this sort of behavior right now." Tarell grabbed him behind the collar and propelled him forward at a quick march.

Chekov was firmly guided down the hallway and into a large, airy room that seemed to be a combination of a study and a sitting room. Like the foyer, it was also quite beautifully arranged. The walls were a woven pattern of ochre and mauve. On a raised platform at one end was a large desk with a polished stone top. In an alcove to the side was something covered that looked suspiciously like a computer terminal. The rest of the room was filled by tables and chairs that were of authentic Ganzarite design. Ganzarite furniture looked a little like lawn furniture from Earth. Chairs had woven, hammock-like seats. Other chairs were simply big, over-stuffed pillows. The only uncomfortable looking seat in the entire room was a three-legged stool that Tarell pulled from a corner and placed before him.

Chekov complied with an uneasy glance over his shoulder as Sahshell closed the door to the room behind her. That seemed to be the only exit. Large windows were to his left, but they were filled with a thick, bubbly, translucent material that looked like a strong glass.

From somewhere behind the desk, Tarell picked up a flattened piece of barbran stalk. It was around a foot long and an inch and a half wide. "Do you know what this is?"

"He has a sense of humor, too," Sahshell said approvingly. "I like that in a man. That's one of the only things I like about Tirst, his sense of humor."

"This," Tarell continued, ignoring her. "Is what civilized Southern ladies use to correct servants who displease them."

"This, on the other hand..." From out of the desk, Tarell drew and evil-looking woven quirt that was over three feet in total length. "...is what Northern women use to beat some sense into obstinate, shit-for-brains offworlders."

"Well," Chekov replied carefully. "I'm glad that you are such a civilized Southern lady."

Tarell laid both instruments of torture on the desktop. "Now, explain to me why you keep trying to run away. You know that's not what you should be doing, don't you?"

The thing Chekov couldn't explain was not why he kept trying to leave, but why he'd allowed this primitive to detain him this long.

"As I said before," the ensign began, knowing in advance his explanation was going to fall on deaf ears, "I'm a Star Fleet officer. My mission is in jeopardy. There are many people depending on my return..."

"Oh, I see." She folded her hands thoughtfully behind her back. "Your problem is that no one's taken the time to explain things to you yet. Well, I will. You are no longer in the offworld. You are here now and you will remain here for the rest of your life. Everything you did or were in the offworld is completely irrelevant. You aren't going back there ever, so you should forget about it as soon as possible. You belong to me now. All you need to worry about is pleasing me. Do you understand?"

"The first thing you're going to have to learn, offworlder," she interrupted sharply, "is not to talk so fornicating much."

"The next thing you need to know is that you must never touch metal surfaces... but since you'll get the same little surprise you got this time every time you try, I don't think that will be too hard to remember. The last thing you need to learn is that you're never, never, ever to try to run away from me again. When I catch you -- and I will catch you -- I will beat you within an inch of your miserable life, do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," Chekov replied meekly, keeping any plans to the contrary to himself for the moment.

"All right." Tarell crossed her arms over her chest and nodded towards the desk. "Now fetch that stick for me."

Chekov looked back and forth uncomfortably between the items on the desk and the Ganzarite woman. Actual corporal punishment seemed to him to be taking this whole slavery thing a bit too far. "I assure you that's not necessary."

Tarell stepped forward and grabbed a handful of his hair. "Don't ever contradict me," she warned, pulling his head painfully backwards. "I will decide what is and is not necessary. Now, do as I say."

"No." Chekov reached up to pull her hand away. Somehow he just couldn't make himself touch her, though. "I will not do it."

"He's been conditioned." Tarell released her grip on his hair, then unexpectedly backhanded him. "See."

Chekov put both of his hands to his stinging cheek in disbelief. He'd been slapped before, but it had never felt like this. The pain was unnatural -- as violently intense as a burn or an electric shock. On the heels of the unpleasant physical sensation came a great feeling of depression and shame, as if he'd done something terribly wrong.

"You don't think I can handle this one myself?" Tarell snapped in reply and Pavel Chekov, who had stood up to aliens three times his size, ion storms and Klingon battlecruisers, flinched at the sound of her voice.

"But he's an offworlder," her sister replied, completely unintimidated. "If he has his memory, he'll try to run away."

'Conditioning,' Chekov explained to himself. 'I've been conditioned to react this way.'

This still didn't make him any less embarrassed by his cowardice or ease the nagging feeling that this was the wrong explanation.

"Well," Tarell was saying defensively, "I don't like the way these Southerners break their men in. They leave them without any spirit."

"That only matters if you decide to breed with them," her sister countered. "Is that what you want to do with this one?"

"What would give you a stupid idea like that?" Tarell answered, despite the fact that at Stah's she'd given ample indication that this was her intention.

Sahshell shook her head. "I don't see how you can be so cheap. It would have only cost you a half-chip. If you end up destroying him because he's untrainable, it'll be a total loss."

"Stah didn't tell me he wasn't broken in until after I'd signed," Tarell admitted grudgingly. "I didn't trust her to do it after that. If he died or went idiot in the process, I'd still have to pay."

Tarell hauled the ensign up by one arm, pulling him in front of her to emphasize the disparity in their relative heights. "Do you really think I'm going to have a problem with this thing?"

Sahshell smiled as she picked the barbran stick up off the desk and held it out for Chekov. "Here, offworlder. Give this stick to your owner."

The ensign clinched his fists as he shook his head, steeling himself for the blow he was ninety percent sure was to follow. "She does not own me."

"Here, darling," Sahshell said soothingly as she pried the ensign's hand away from his burning cheek. "Put your hands out. She's just going to give you a couple of raps across the palms. Now how much can that hurt?"

Although he knew this was not a good idea, Chekov felt inclined to co-operate with the Ganzarite for some reason.

"I'm not interfering. I'm just helping out," her pretty sister insisted as she coaxed Chekov's curled fingers open. "See, darling, you're making Tarell mad. And you really shouldn't do that right now. You know you deserve a punishment, so just take it and don't make it any worse for yourself."

"I'm not going to let you spoil this one, Sahshell," Tarell said, then brought the stick down hard across his open palms.

It was in actuality just as the sister had said, just a rap, but Chekov almost screamed at the white hot agony that exploded in his hands. It wasn't logical. There was no way that the impact of that flimsy piece of wooden material could cause that sort of pain. However his nerve endings weren't listening to logic.

"Oh, that did smart a little, didn't it?" Tarell asked cruelly. "You see, you can't listen to Sahshell. She's a big liar. Now, you've got four more just like that one coming. Do you want them fast or slow?"

"It doesn't really make any difference," Sahshell advised him as she held his hands in place.

"Two...Three...Four...Five," Tarell counted out loud, punctuating each with a excruciating blow from the stick.

"Oh, God!" Chekov cried out. He squeezed his eyes closed to staunch the flow of the involuntary tears that formed in his eyes. When Sahshell released him, he clutched his burning hands to his chest and rocked back and forth as if that could relieve their agony.

"Believe it or not, that's probably the lightest beating you'll ever get while you're here," Sahshell informed him cheerfully.

"You see, that's why she was nice to you," Tarell explained. "She just wanted to see the look on your face when she said that."

"Oh, don't listen to her," Sahshell said, handing him a cloth to wipe his face with. "I like you very much."

"I'll do that," Tarell said, whisking it from her grasp. "Come here, offworlder."

Turning obediently towards her was the furthermost thing from what Chekov wanted to do, but he felt he had very little choice. He felt terribly, terribly bad -- guilty for having offended her and fearful of displeasing her further. He kept his eyes on the tiled floor, promising himself that he'd get out of this awful place if it was the last thing he ever did.

"Look at the way his face goes so red," Sahshell commented as her sister wiped his eyes and nose. "Is that normal?"

"Oh, yes. He's all right." Tarell tilted his head up, forcing him to look her in the eyes. "It just means he'd like very much to rebel against me but knows he can't. Isn't that right?"

Chekov lowered his eyes and remained silent, hating the part of himself that despite everything was enjoying being so close to her.

"Stah was right," she said approvingly. "You are clever. You're already learning when not to talk. Show me how smart you are and tell me what else you've learned."

Chekov would have liked to give the Ganzarite a very explicit account of the opinions he'd formed, but lacked her colorful vocabulary. "Avoid contact with metal surfaces and make no attempt to escape," he answered instead.

Chekov was horrified to find that that was exactly what a part of him wanted to do. It took all the effort he could muster to resist the urge.

Tarell made it harder by reaching out and tracing the line of his jaw with her finger. "You're going to find it's very dangerous to be angry with me," she whispered, as his skin tingled deliciously in the wake of her touch, "and not very pleasant. Now kiss me."

He tried to resist, but the flesh was too weak. He even tried not to enjoy the touch of her lips on his, but every nerve in his body screamed with pleasure. After she released him, he even tried to tell himself that he'd be stronger the next time, but that didn't seem at all likely.

"Much better," she said, then turned him around by the shoulders to face her sister. "Here, Sahshell. Find something for him to do in the kitchen. But don't give him anything to eat or drink."

"Why?" Sahshell asked as she reached out and took him by the hand. "Are you still punishing him?"

"No, stupid. It's because he's a fornicating alien," Tarell replied with her customary grace. "Our food might make him sick. We've got to wait until the supplies come this afternoon and I read the instructions. I'll also send out for some clothes that'll fit him and we'll see how well he washes up. And see that you keep your hands off him, Sahshell. He's mine."

"And you, offworlder..." Chekov could almost feel the warning finger she pointed at him. "Don't you even think of trying to leave."

"Yes, ma'am," Chekov agreed reluctantly, knowing he shouldn't be thinking of anything else.

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