Fic: We Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly To Be Fearful of the Night (Part 3a)
Title: We Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly to be Fearful of the Night - Part 3a
Art: by wheres_walnut is here
Fanmix by snarkyrainbow is here
Characters/Pairings: McCoy/Chekov, Chekov/others mentioned, plus ensemble cast
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: slavery, non- and dub-con, violence (but no explicit torture), emotional abuse, but none of it inflicted by the good guys. Also, explicit sex.
Authors Notes: Thanks to redandglenda for catching my mistakes, vellum for not letting me get away with anything, and jaune_chat for everything always.Title quotation from The Old Astronomer to His Pupil by Sarah Williams.
Summary: More than anyone else on the Enterprise, Leonard McCoy knows that space is disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence. As much as he’s seen in the two years since the Narada incident, he’s not prepared when a simple mission ends in the disappearance of a crewmember. The crew must adjust to the idea that one of their own may never come home.
PART THREE
“I really thought those guards would be slower,” Kirk whispered.
Spock tightened his grip on the tree branch on which they were perched. “Captain, I would prefer if you did not speak.”
“As usual,” Kirk grumbled, but then he fell silent.
Below them passed two of Lord Intah’s guards, with their primitive phasers clutched firmly in hand.
Kirk took stock of the movement on the forest floor around them: three of the enemy that he could see. More could be concealed nearby, and if they made too much noise, the two of them could be overwhelmed before they knew it. Beside him, Spock had evidently come to the same conclusion. As the nearest guard passed under their tree, Kirk held up three fingers, then two, then he launched himself off the branch.
Spock jumped after him, as always. They hit the ground almost in unison. Kirk came up first, fists flying, and knocked down the passing guard before he could shout. Spock sped across the forest floor, running down the two guards who’d caught sight of them. His hand reached the neck of the first while the second raised his weapon. Then Kirk caught up with them, a wall of blunt force carrying the last guard to the ground.
From deeper into the woods, shouting came closer. “Captain, more are on the way,” Spock said.
“Shuttle. Let’s go.” Kirk dashed off through the scraggly trees, confident that Spock was following. A phaser blast burned past him and impacted a tree trunk, sending chunks of bark flying. Kirk rolled, came up on one knee facing the pursuers, and got off three shots before a shower of return fire sent him ducking behind a tree.
“Spock, a little cover here?” he called. He fired back the way they’d run as he darted to shelter behind another tree. “Spock?”
“Here, Captain.” Spock appeared beside him, phaser in hand. “Doctor McCoy is signaling the Enterprise to retrieve us.”
“They’ll never get here in time to stop Intah’s ship from taking off.”
“Agreed. However, we may be able to delay their departure.”
The bulky form of their shuttle loomed before them. Kirk hit the manual override on the door, and cursed the seconds it took for the entryway to open. He slipped through the door as soon as there was room, and went right to the cockpit to start the takeoff sequence. Behind him, he could hear Spock firing the phaser he’d taken from their pursuers, holding off the last of the guards.
“Close it up, Spock!” Kirk shouted. “We’re out of here!”
Trusting that his first officer would have the sense to hang on to something, he punched the ignition and pulled up hard, bringing the shuttle bursting out of the trees and tearing over the outskirts of Buran.
Spock dragged himself into the cockpit and slid into the co-pilot’s seat. “The launch pad is likely to be close to Intah’s compound.”
Kirk nodded and swung the shuttle around in the direction from which they’d run. The trip was much quicker in a shuttle than on foot, and in less than a minute Kirk caught sight of the tall spires of Intah’s manor house. Nearby, a large transport shuttle was just lifting off. Beside it hovered two smaller shuttles, both outfitted with hefty-looking phaser arrays. The Enterprise’s shuttles had some weaponry, but they were not meant for quick maneuvering in planetary atmosphere.
“Spock?” Kirk asked as Intah’s convoy spotted them and moved to defend.
“Their firepower is considerably superior,” Spock observed.
“Then you’d better be ready for some fancy co-piloting.”
--
When McCoy materialized in the main transporter room, he was relieved to see Montgomery Scott himself standing at the controls. Scott’s pleased smile turned to alarm when he saw McCoy supporting a semi-conscious man.
“What’s this about, then?” He rushed up onto the transporter pad to help, but he froze mid-way through the action. “McCoy…Is--?”
“Yes, it’s Chekov,” McCoy said wearily, and shifted his arm around his groggy patient.
Scott just stared. McCoy would have expected an outburst, maybe a shout or a hug, but instead the engineer just stood silent and still, as if the sight of Chekov alive had frozen him in his tracks.
“We’ve got to get him to sickbay,” McCoy said impatiently.
“Aye, of course,” Scott said, and shook himself out of his stupor to come help McCoy support Chekov. “Is he injured?”
“I don’t know,” McCoy said truthfully. His fingers itched for the suite of diagnostic tools in sickbay.
“Well what the hell went on down there?”
“I’ll explain later.” McCoy steered them toward the hallway. “What happened to the captain?”
“He and Commander Spock are handling the situation.”
At that moment, red alert began to blare.
McCoy rolled his eyes. “If you say so. Help me get him to sickbay, damn it.”
--
Pasha squinted in the bright light and tried to follow the whirlwind of activity around him. A loud, repetitive siren blared at regular intervals, accompanied by the flashing of a red light near the ceiling. From where Pasha lay on a high, pristine-white bed, he saw several men and women in blue and black uniforms rushing about. His master, now wearing a similar uniform, was among them. Pasha noted the way he snapped orders and the way everyone jumped to obey him. This must be his master’s military vessel.
Gingerly, for Pasha still felt slightly unsteady from the aftereffects of what his master had given him, he slid off the bed and straightened his clothes (new ones-someone had bathed him and dressed him in soft black pants and a long black shirt). His hand flew to his neck to find the collar still comfortingly secure. He wove his way through the chaos to his master’s side. He raised his hand to touch McCoy and alert him to his presence, but his master must have sensed him, for he whirled around and barked, “What?”
Pasha dropped to his knees and bowed his head, chagrined at having irritated his master in their first interaction in his new home.
“Damnit kid, I’m sorry.” When McCoy recognized Pasha, his whole manner changed. He bent down to grab Pasha by the arm and pulled him back to his feet. “Come on, you shouldn’t be up and about until we’re sure that sedative is out of your system.”
The red lights flashed one more time and then ceased, and the blaring noise also stopped. “Must have gotten them on board finally…” he said. Whatever he saw on Pasha’s face made him pat his shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry about all that. Just some trouble with the local authorities getting the captain back.”
The captain. Of course. Pasha had failed to impress McCoy, and now he would be given away. Here, in the clean brightness of McCoy’s ship, further struggle seemed futile. Pasha let McCoy lead him back to the bed, which was sheltered from the rest of the room by a wall. “You feeling okay? Lightheaded, dizzy?”
Pasha shook his head. This care, these continuous questions about his well-being, puzzled him. He couldn’t work out why McCoy was being so cautious around him, unless he thought Pasha was weak or infirm. Or this captain treated his slaves roughly, and McCoy wanted to make sure Pasha wouldn’t break too soon.
“We ran a few simple tests while you were out earlier, but I want to do an examination to make sure you’re healthy. If anything hurts, or if you don’t like what I’m doing, you need to tell me. Understand?”
Pasha nodded, but he resolved not to stop the examination no matter what McCoy did to him. He would show he wasn’t weak.
McCoy picked up a rectangular instrument that he pointed at Pasha. He held the thing at a distance and moved it up and down, frowning at the display. “Uh huh. Still no change in the vitals. You’re a little undernourished, but we can fix that easily enough.”
McCoy ran his thumb along Pasha’s collar. Pasha’s breath froze in his throat, and he hardly dared move, lest McCoy shy away from him again. “Sorry about this. I still can’t work out how to take it off without hurting you. We’ll figure it out, though. They’ll want to look at the information in that chip.”
Pasha reached up and linked a finger through his collar. If McCoy removed it, Pasha could be mistaken for an unclaimed slave or a runaway. Of course he would do as his master wished, but McCoy held some unorthodox ideas about slave ownership.
McCoy was pointing that strange device at him again, and frowning at what it told him. “The scan’s still not picking up anything wrong with your throat. Damn it.”
Pasha hung his head in contrition. Other masters hadn’t seen his muteness as a problem. A slave shouldn’t need to speak anyway, he’d been told repeatedly. His job was to listen and obey. But McCoy seemed to see his lack of a voice as a defect, another disappointment. His stomach clenched as the thought struck him that he might be deemed too damaged to be given to this captain at all, and instead face some even worse fate.
“How long has that been going on? You not being able to talk?” McCoy caught his mistake before Pasha faced the unenviable task of trying to explain a complicated answer. “Sorry, sorry. A long time?” Pasha nodded. “More than a month?” Pasha nodded again. “Do you remember being able to speak?”
Pasha nodded his head yes. Barely, but he remembered the early days of his training, before they’d taken away his strongest tool for fighting back.
McCoy waved the scanner closer to Pasha, and his frown returned. "Can you tell me what happened? I mean, did they do something to make you stop talking?”
Pasha considered for a moment how to make McCoy understand what they’d done. McCoy seemed to be irritated by reminders of Pasha’s slave status, or of his former masters, and he certainly didn’t like to see Pasha in pain-at least so far-so Pasha saw no need to go into detail about the early days of his training, even if he’d been able to. Instead, he wrapped a hand around his throat, above the collar, and pulled it away slowly.
“It’s the collar,” McCoy guessed. “The collar stops you talking?”
Pasha shook his head quickly. He’d have to work on finding better ways to express himself if McCoy kept demanding things from him no other master had been interested in. He put his hand out in front of him, palm down, then slapped it lightly.
McCoy frowned. “You were bad?”
Pasha nodded, pleased with himself for having conveyed his meaning, even if it was only to confess his inadequacy. He put his hand to his throat again, then pulled it away, closing his fingers into a fist and pushing it toward McCoy. When his master looked puzzled, he slapped his hand again, then touched his throat and drew his hand away.
“You were bad, so they took your voice away?”
Pasha nodded. The look McCoy gave him wasn’t displeasure, exactly, but Pasha didn’t like it. He had no excuse for upsetting his master. He wanted to convey to McCoy his gratitude at how well he’d treated Pasha so far, but he wasn’t sure how to do it without irritating McCoy further. Tentatively, he reached for his master’s hand. McCoy didn’t pull away, so Pasha drew his hand to his forehead and pressed it there, hoping that McCoy would recognize the expression of loyalty in the gesture.
McCoy allowed it for only a moment before pulling his hand away and sighing. “Listen, Chekov. I want you to understand something.” He pulled a chair over next to the bed and sat looking up at Pasha. “You don’t belong to anyone. You don’t have to kneel to anyone. Understand? I’m not your master. You’re your own man.”
Pasha dropped his eyes, unable to maintain a strong front any longer. McCoy obviously had no interest in Pasha, or any of the skills he could offer. He’d tried to the best of his abilities, but no action of his seemed to impress McCoy. He nodded reluctantly, just to show he’d heard, but he didn’t understand. If he didn’t belong to McCoy, then what would become of him?
--
“Where is he?” Kirk demanded as he barged into sickbay.
Nurse Chapel stopped him with a look and an upraised hand. “Where did all those bruises come from, Captain?”
“We got into a little scrape on Bussar. Where is he?” He tried to keep walking, but Chapel blocked his way.
“Who, sir?”
“Chekov! Where is he, Christine?”
She held up both hands and closed her eyes for a moment before she said, “Doctor McCoy is with him. But you have to understand, he’s not well.”
Kirk carefully schooled his expression, even as his heart plummeted. Commander Scott had sounded so genuinely thrilled that he’d assumed the best. He nodded to Chapel. “Anything I should know?”
“Doctor McCoy hasn’t said much,” Chapel said quietly. “But he’s not himself. He doesn’t know where he is, I think.”
“Can I see him?”
“They’re in the back.” Chapel led him as far as the wall that divided main sickbay from the exam area. Kirk steeled himself for what he might find, and stepped around the corner.
McCoy stood next to a bio bed, making a note with his stylus on a data padd. On the bed sat Chekov. His curls spilled over his ears in an unruly mess, and the black standard-issue shirt hung off his too-thin frame, but he was alive, and whole. Kirk couldn’t suppress the start of a relieved laugh. “Chekov!”
McCoy whirled around. Chekov started, jumped off the bed, and looked ready to flee until McCoy settled a hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright,” he said soothingly. Kirk couldn’t remember McCoy ever speaking so gently. “This is Captain Kirk.”
Chekov began to drop to his knees, but McCoy caught him under the arm.
“Woah.” Kirk came closer. “You okay there, Chekov?”
“He’s okay, Jim. He just wanted to kneel.” McCoy turned to Chekov and softened his tone. “Remember, you don’t have to do that.”
“Hey, a lot of people have that reaction to me.”
Bones shot him a sharp look, not a fondly exasperated roll of the eyes, but a cold glare that told Jim in no uncertain terms that he had gone too far.
“Go on kid. Go lie down,” McCoy ordered. When Chekov didn’t move, he added, “I’ll be right back.” Chekov nodded hesitantly and slunk back to sit on the bio bed without once raising his eyes. McCoy led Jim back to his office.
“He looks healthy,” Kirk offered.
“Physically he’s not too bad off.” McCoy slumped into his desk chair.
“But?”
“You saw him.” McCoy gestured vaguely, but seemed too dejected even to dig out the flask Kirk knew must be hiding somewhere in his desk. “Something they did to him messed with his mind.”
“Okay,” Kirk said slowly. “Like a drug?”
“Not exactly. I don’t know what the hell happened.” McCoy glanced toward the door of the office and lowered his voice. “He doesn’t remember us, the Enterprise, anything.”
“How do we fix it?”
“Until I do some more tests and figure out what exactly the problem is, I can’t say.”
“But he doesn’t remember.”
McCoy shook his head. “He doesn’t remember anything before he disappeared, near as I can tell.”
“What could cause that?”
“Head injury. Drugs. Some sort of illness, maybe. Hell, Jim, it could have been anything. We still don’t know who took him, or where he’s been all this time.” McCoy’s fist clenched hard at his side. “We barely know more than we did the day he disappeared.”
“Hey, it’s okay.” Kirk went to lean against the desk and put a steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. Just go have a look at him. Spock and I will deal with what we can find of the on-planet branch of the slave trade. If we come across anything that might explain what happened, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Thanks Jim.”
--
Sulu maneuvered the Enterprise back into orbit, maintaining their position above Bussar’s main continent.
“I can’t believe Kirk brought that shuttle in with just one engine,” Kelso said. “Those things are hard enough to fly when they’re working right.”
“Uh huh,” Sulu said absently.
“I can’t even imagine taking on an enemy ship in atmo with nothing but a shuttle. And three enemy ships… Man.”
“Uh huh.”
“Good thing to know he really can pilot. If there was an emergency or anything, I mean, I bet Kirk could fly the Enterprise just as easy as that shuttle.”
“Probably.”
“I mean, he could do my job too, maybe, but he seems like he’s a great pilot.”
Sulu was saved from having to suffer any more of Kelso’s chatter by Spock and Scotty arriving on the bridge. Spock had evidently stopped to change back into his uniform. He still looked bruised and a bit tousled, which wasn’t much considering what he’d been through on the planet, but on the usually impeccable first officer, a little bit of dirt and bruising seemed disproportionately serious.
“Commander,” Sulu said. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Mister Scott?” Spock went right for the science station without stopping by the command chair or asking for a report, which in itself was strange. Even after an absence of a few hours, Spock usually wanted to be brought up to speed on onboard events. Now, however, he and Scott bent over Spock’s station and began to talk in hushed tones. Kelso caught Sulu’s eye and shrugged dramatically, but then part of Spock’s conversation with Scotty grabbed Sulu’s attention.
“What did you say?” he asked. Spock turned around and raised an eyebrow at him, and Sulu realized he’d interrupted the conversation of two superior officers. “I’m sorry, Commander, I thought I heard… Heard something.”
Everyone else on the bridge, attuned to Sulu’s sharp tenseness, fell silent to listen to the exchange. Spock regarded him coolly for a moment, as if considering whether to answer. “I said Ensign Chekov is in sickbay.”
Sulu stared back at him. He couldn’t breathe in, couldn’t move. Even though he thought he’d heard the name, he hadn’t really believed it. “Chekov.”
“Doctor McCoy recovered him during the course of our mission on Bussar.”
Too many questions crowded up, tangling on Sulu’s tongue in their haste to be asked. On the whole bridge, the only sound was the ping of instruments.
Then Uhura spoke. “Sir, the governor is hailing us again.”
“Acknowledge. Lieutenant, please bring us into position directly above Buran.”
Sulu turned back to the controls, but his fingers didn’t seem able to move. His ears buzzed, and it wasn’t until a hand clasped his shoulder that he realized someone was addressing him.
He looked up, blinking, in the captain’s face. Kirk was back on the bridge. “Sulu. Maybe you should go down to sickbay.”
“Yes. Okay. Yes.” He stood up, gratefully that his body seemed to know what to do without his conscious control.
“Sulu.” Kirk drew him aside by the exit and spoke softly. “Don’t expect too much.”
Recovered him. That’s what Spock had said. Or at least that’s what Sulu thought he heard. Did Spock mean they’d recovered his body? Sulu could barely get the words past the tightness in his throat, “Is he alive?”
“Yes,” Kirk said quickly, shaking his head as if the alternative was too much to contemplate. “Sulu, yes, he’s alive, he’s up walking around. Just… Talk to McCoy before you try to see Chekov. Understand?”
“Yes sir.”
--
“I can’t figure the damn thing out.” McCoy pulled another tool off the shelf in the storage closet, looked at it in disgust, and tossed it back on the shelf. “There’s no clasp, no lock, nothing.”
Nurse Chapel stood in the doorway, wisely out of McCoy’s path. “Have you asked engineering?”
“That’s all I need,” McCoy snapped. “Montgomery Scott coming at the kid’s neck with a plasma torch. Liable to kill him as soon as get the thing off.”
“What about those Cyrillian pliers. You know, the ones we used when Commander N’tach went into premature labor? Remember, the Veri-insectoid?”
“Right, right, of course,” McCoy said absently.
“I’ll see if we still have them,” Chapel said, and ducked out of the supply closet. She hadn’t been out of sight a minute when shouting erupted from the main sickbay. “Doctor!”
McCoy made it to the doorway to see Hikaru Sulu flat on his back, blocking the flurry of blows Chekov aimed at his face from his position above the downed pilot.
“Chekov, stop!” McCoy shouted.
Chekov’s head snapped up. When he saw McCoy in the doorway, he instantly jumped up. One sharp step backwards took him clear of Sulu, and then he stood with head bowed, bruised fists hanging at his sides. “Sulu, what the hell did you do?”
Sulu stumbled to his feet. He wiped a hand across his bloody lip, but he looked more betrayed than hurt. “Nothing. I just came in to see him.”
“Well you must have done something worth attacking you for,” McCoy snapped. He went to stand between his patient and the bewildered helmsman.
“I didn’t even touch him! Wait…” Sulu’s expression turned thoughtful. “No, I did. He wouldn’t look at me. I didn’t even know if he was hearing me, so I went over by the bed. I put my hand on his shoulder. Then he attacked me.”
“Chekov!” McCoy turned. “Why the hell’d you hit him?”
Chekov dropped to his knees on the hard metal floor, making McCoy wince in sympathy-and pressed his forehead to the floor in the position of apology, of submission, that McCoy had come to loathe.
“No,” Sulu whispered. McCoy had forgotten that not everyone was used to displays like this from Chekov.
“It’s fine, Lieutenant,” he said, though of course it was nothing like fine. He lowered himself to the floor next to Chekov-too old for this, damnit-and spoke quietly. “Hey. Why did you attack him?”
Chekov sat up on his heels slowly. He looked hesitantly up at McCoy, then threw a quick glance at Sulu. A wrinkle creased his forehead, and McCoy recognized the telltale sign of Chekov working out how to convey a complex idea. Of course, the kid was brilliant, and he soon began gesturing determinedly.
He curled one hand against his chest, then tentatively lifted McCoy’s hand and pulled his own fist away from his body to settle it in the palm of McCoy’s hand.
“You were scared?” McCoy guessed.
Chekov shook his head and repeated the motion, pulling his clenched hand away from his chest and giving it to McCoy.
“You…You wanted to make something?”
Another frustrated shake of his head. Chekov furrowed his brow again, thinking, and tried something else. He took McCoy’s hand and pulled it gently against the front of his synthetic polymer collar.
“You… Oh. You belong to me.”
Chekov nodded emphatically.
“He doesn’t belong to anyone,” Sulu growled. “He’s a human being.”
“Shut up and listen,” McCoy snapped.
Chekov still looked troubled.
“What?” McCoy prompted.
Chekov hovered uncertainly, neither dropping back into his submissive posture nor making eye contact, as if there were more he wanted to communicate, but hesitated to do so.
“Tell me, Chekov.”
Chekov made the gesture once more, putting his fist into McCoy’s hand.
“Yeah, okay, you’re mine,” McCoy said, ignoring Sulu’s derisive snort.
Chekov pointed at Sulu, then with a sharp gesture, used his other hand to pull his fist away from McCoy.
“You thought he was trying to take you from me.”
Chekov held up both fists in a mockery of fighting stance.
“So you were defending my property.” Considering the way the other owners at that market treated their slaves, the behavior made sense.
Chekov nodded, and a small smile appeared at the pleasure of making himself understood.
“Well, you don’t need to beat up Sulu.”
Chekov’s smile dropped away. He made another sign, taking his hand first to Bones, then tentatively toward Sulu with a look of pained inquiry.
“No! I’m not going to hand you around like a damn party favor. You never have to worry about that, you hear? Is that what they did to you?”
Sulu clapped a hand down on McCoy’s shoulder. “Doctor, you’re scaring him.”
At McCoy’s angry tone, Chekov had shrunk back against the wall, folding himself into as small as space as possible.
“Damnit. I’m sorry.”
“Doctor…” Sulu’s voice was barely a whisper. “Is he all right?”
“No,” McCoy sighed. “Come here, Chekov.”
He slid forward across the floor until he was close enough to lay a hand on Chekov’s back. Immediately, as if a switch had been flipped, Chekov slid into position on his knees, head bowed, though he was still trembling. “Lieutenant Sulu won’t touch you, okay?” He hated feeling like he was talking to a child. Chekov was a Starfleet officer-a damn good one, too, whatever his age-and he shouldn’t be shaking in fear just because McCoy raised his voice. “He won’t touch you. He may come here to visit you if you say that’s alright, but he won’t touch.” McCoy rubbed gentle circles on Chekov’s back as he talked, and Chekov’s trembling subsided.
“Sulu.”
“Huh?” Sulu startled out of the half-trance he’d been in, staring at McCoy’s hand on Chekov.
“You need your face looked at? He do any damage?”
Sulu slowly shook his head. He hadn’t once taken his eyes from Chekov, although Chekov hadn’t looked back at him at all. “No. You…” He backed away slowly, shaking his head. “I should get back to the bridge.” He was gone before McCoy could say anything further.
--
Kirk’s senior staff had seldom been so distracted during a mission briefing. But each of the officers around the table seemed distant as the Fleet intelligence rep, Trenach, dissected the problems at hand. Kirk knew how they felt. McCoy’s usual seat at the table was vacant, and Kirk’s thoughts kept wandering to him, holed up in sickbay with their miraculously returned, though thoroughly damaged, navigator.
Trenach referred to his padd to broach the next point on his agenda. “What about the escort ships that came to rescue that transport?”
Spock turned to look at Sulu, but it took the helmsman a moment to realize he was being addressed. “Escort ships,” Spock prompted.
“We lost them, sir,” Sulu said. “They scattered while we were getting the captain’s shuttle back on board.”
“So you lost both the transport and the escort ships,” Trenach said. Kirk didn’t like the nasty edge in his voice.
“Yes, sir,” Sulu said through tightly clenched teeth. “We couldn’t disable them without risking the slaves aboard.”
“It’s not your fault,” Kirk broke in. “They knew we were coming, anyway. Lord Intah wasn’t as… open to negotiation as we were lead to believe. Starfleet’s strength is not exactly subtlety.”
“I apologize for any tactical insufficiency--,” Spock began.
“Cool it, Spock. You couldn’t have known. We did the best we could with the information we had at the time,” Kirk said. He met the eyes of each of his officers so they all knew they weren’t to blame for the relative failure this mission had become. “Besides, we may be able to track them.”
“How exactly do you propose to do that?” Trenach asked.
“We should be able to follow a sub-space transmitter that’s been modified to provide a long-range signal,” Kirk said reasonably.
“We could, if they had such a device, and if we just happened to know the frequency,” Trenach sneered.
“Or if I happened to drop my transmitter coin in our trader friend’s ship,” Kirk said, examining his nails with a self-satisfied smirk.
“You’re brilliant, Captain,” Scotty said.
Kirk grinned. “Sometimes.”
--
McCoy wasn’t surprised that Chekov looked wary when he approached with a wicked-looking pair of Cyrillian pliers. Post-traumatic stress hadn’t been a common problem back when McCoy was a simple country doctor, but here on the Enterprise he’d seen more PTSD symptoms than he cared to remember. McCoy could only imagine what horrors Chekov had endured to make him supplicate himself for mercy at every perceived mistake and flinch away from every stranger’s touch as if he expected a blow.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” McCoy said in a voice calculated so soothe. “I’m just going to get that damn collar off.”
Chekov linked his fingers through the front of his collar and backed up two quick steps.
“It’s not going to hurt, I promise.”
Chekov retreated two more steps, fell to his knees, and pressed his face to the floor.
“Damn it to hell,” McCoy breathed quietly. He had thought they’d gotten past this stage. He set the pliers on the biobed and dropped to a crouch beside Chekov. “What is this? What did I do? We’ve got to get that collar off.”
Chekov lifted up onto his knees and wrapped both hands protectively around the ring of synthetic material that circled his throat.
“You don’t want the collar off?”
Chekov nodded emphatically and wrapped his hands tighter around his neck.
“Why the hell not?”
Chekov pulled one finger against his collar, then brought his hand out in a loose fist and pushed it toward McCoy. He’d seen that gesture before. “You belong to me. Chekov, I told you--.”
Chekov nodded quickly, but his hands were moving again, so McCoy shut up and watched. Chekov touched his collar. He pointed in a wide arc behind McCoy, toward the rest of the ship, then pointed to his eyes and again to his collar.
“Everyone can see the collar.”
He pointed again: eyes, collar, McCoy.
“They can see you belong to me.”
Chekov nodded solemnly. He waved a finger at McCoy, and then pulled both hands away from his collar, as if pulling it off. He pointed again toward the rest of the ship. He covered his eyes, then uncovered them and looked at McCoy expectantly.
“If they don’t see the collar, then…?”
Chekov’s look of anticipation remained. He clearly expected McCoy to work this out for himself, but McCoy could only generate an uneasy suspicion, not an articulation of Chekov’s point.
After a moment, Chekov seemed to realize McCoy didn’t get it. His expression morphed into a determined frown, and his hands began moving again. He touched the collar, pointed beyond McCoy, and covered his eyes. Then he pointed again, to the mysterious “others” represented by the world beyond sickbay. He pointed to himself, then pulled his hand away quickly.
“You’re afraid they’ll take you away,” McCoy guessed.
Chekov held his two fists together and brought them out and apart in a quick, snapping motion.
“Oh. They’ll…” He couldn’t say break, so he settled for, “They’ll hurt you.”
Chekov nodded, apparently relieved that he’d conveyed his meaning at last.
“No, Chekov. Listen. I won’t let anyone hurt you. And they wouldn’t. Not Sulu, not Jim. No one wants to see you hurt.” McCoy took Chekov by the shoulders and made sure he had his attention. “Listen to me. You used to be an officer on this ship. You were… a friend of mine. Of all of us. And then, about a year ago, you were taken away. We’ve been looking for you. You’ve got a lot of friends on this ship, and they’re all very glad to have you back.”
Chekov gave a shallow nod, but it was clear he didn’t entirely believe what McCoy was telling him.
“Masters have lied to you before, haven’t they.”
Chekov seemed torn as to how to answer that, so McCoy waved him off. “Doesn’t matter. I won’t lie to you. Hell, I don’t lie to anyone, even when I should. No one’s going to hurt you on this ship. You belong here. You just don’t remember it. And we’ll figure out a way to get your memories back. In the meantime, you know what would make me happy?”
Chekov leaned forward in rapt fascination and nodded vigorously. He evidently very much wanted to know.
“Forget whatever they told you you had to do as a slave. You’re not a slave, here. You’re…” McCoy didn’t know what the hell he was. He couldn’t be a member of the crew, not in his state. He wasn’t a prisoner, certainly, and he was more than a patient. “Just pretend you’re my guest. I want you to feel at home here. Can you try that?”
Chekov nodded reluctantly.
“Good. Now let me get that collar off you.”
--
Pasha slid his hand around his naked throat, reveling in the novelty of a bare neck. McCoy had told him to rest, but he couldn’t sleep here in this sterile cage of steel and glass. Besides, his master-no, McCoy: he didn’t like to be thought of as master-McCoy hadn’t slept since Pasha awoke here.
Even now Pasha could see McCoy rushing about his domain, engaged in a tense conversation with the blue-uniformed woman who was so often at his side. They passed out of his sight, so Pasha slid off the narrow bed and crept over to the entryway to get a better view.
“And you won’t see a single patient more until you do,” the woman was saying.
“I’m the Chief Medical Officer. I’ll be in charge of my own health, thank you very much.”
“I’ll tell the captain you haven’t slept in twenty-four hours.”
“That’s fighting dirty, Christine. Fine. Just let me check on him one more time.”
“I think he’s way ahead of you.” The woman-Christine-looked Pasha’s way and winked at him.
McCoy turned back and caught him standing there in the doorway. Pasha reined in the instinct to shrink back or flee. He hadn’t done anything wrong. For any other master he would have stepped forward, knelt, and waited for orders. But McCoy didn’t want that. So instead Pasha dropped his eyes deferentially and waited to be acknowledged.
“Go back to sleep, kid.” McCoy patted him gingerly on the shoulder and waved back toward the room Pasha had come from. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Pasha grabbed McCoy’s arm, but when McCoy turned, startled, to look at him, he dropped his hold immediately and returned his eyes to the floor. His behavior didn’t become his training. A slave belonged to the master, not the master to the slave. McCoy could go where he pleased without regard for Pasha. He would have to conquer his selfish fear at being left alone on this strange ship with people who expected him to be someone he wasn’t.
“What’s wrong?”
Pasha looked back at the bed where McCoy had put him, cold and sterile in the white light of this place, and turned back to McCoy. He wanted to kneel, but knew it would only irritate his master, so instead he steeled himself and did as McCoy had commanded: tried to act more like a guest than a slave. He pointed to the door, then at McCoy, and looked at his master expectantly, framing a question.
“Yes, I’m going back to my quarters.”
Pasha pointed to himself, then at McCoy.
“No,” McCoy said quickly. “You stay here. If you don’t want to stay in sickbay, I suppose we can have some quarters made up tomorrow, but you should stay here for observation. We still don’t know what all they did to you.”
Pasha pointed to himself again, then at McCoy. McCoy turned back to the woman, who only gave him an enigmatic shrug.
“Bad idea,” McCoy said. “Very bad.”
Once more, Pasha laid a hand on his own chest, and held his hand out toward McCoy.
“Damn it, this is a bad idea,” McCoy said, but he took Pasha’s hand and pulled him toward the door.
Previous Part
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Art: by wheres_walnut is here
Fanmix by snarkyrainbow is here
Characters/Pairings: McCoy/Chekov, Chekov/others mentioned, plus ensemble cast
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: slavery, non- and dub-con, violence (but no explicit torture), emotional abuse, but none of it inflicted by the good guys. Also, explicit sex.
Authors Notes: Thanks to redandglenda for catching my mistakes, vellum for not letting me get away with anything, and jaune_chat for everything always.Title quotation from The Old Astronomer to His Pupil by Sarah Williams.
Summary: More than anyone else on the Enterprise, Leonard McCoy knows that space is disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence. As much as he’s seen in the two years since the Narada incident, he’s not prepared when a simple mission ends in the disappearance of a crewmember. The crew must adjust to the idea that one of their own may never come home.
PART THREE
“I really thought those guards would be slower,” Kirk whispered.
Spock tightened his grip on the tree branch on which they were perched. “Captain, I would prefer if you did not speak.”
“As usual,” Kirk grumbled, but then he fell silent.
Below them passed two of Lord Intah’s guards, with their primitive phasers clutched firmly in hand.
Kirk took stock of the movement on the forest floor around them: three of the enemy that he could see. More could be concealed nearby, and if they made too much noise, the two of them could be overwhelmed before they knew it. Beside him, Spock had evidently come to the same conclusion. As the nearest guard passed under their tree, Kirk held up three fingers, then two, then he launched himself off the branch.
Spock jumped after him, as always. They hit the ground almost in unison. Kirk came up first, fists flying, and knocked down the passing guard before he could shout. Spock sped across the forest floor, running down the two guards who’d caught sight of them. His hand reached the neck of the first while the second raised his weapon. Then Kirk caught up with them, a wall of blunt force carrying the last guard to the ground.
From deeper into the woods, shouting came closer. “Captain, more are on the way,” Spock said.
“Shuttle. Let’s go.” Kirk dashed off through the scraggly trees, confident that Spock was following. A phaser blast burned past him and impacted a tree trunk, sending chunks of bark flying. Kirk rolled, came up on one knee facing the pursuers, and got off three shots before a shower of return fire sent him ducking behind a tree.
“Spock, a little cover here?” he called. He fired back the way they’d run as he darted to shelter behind another tree. “Spock?”
“Here, Captain.” Spock appeared beside him, phaser in hand. “Doctor McCoy is signaling the Enterprise to retrieve us.”
“They’ll never get here in time to stop Intah’s ship from taking off.”
“Agreed. However, we may be able to delay their departure.”
The bulky form of their shuttle loomed before them. Kirk hit the manual override on the door, and cursed the seconds it took for the entryway to open. He slipped through the door as soon as there was room, and went right to the cockpit to start the takeoff sequence. Behind him, he could hear Spock firing the phaser he’d taken from their pursuers, holding off the last of the guards.
“Close it up, Spock!” Kirk shouted. “We’re out of here!”
Trusting that his first officer would have the sense to hang on to something, he punched the ignition and pulled up hard, bringing the shuttle bursting out of the trees and tearing over the outskirts of Buran.
Spock dragged himself into the cockpit and slid into the co-pilot’s seat. “The launch pad is likely to be close to Intah’s compound.”
Kirk nodded and swung the shuttle around in the direction from which they’d run. The trip was much quicker in a shuttle than on foot, and in less than a minute Kirk caught sight of the tall spires of Intah’s manor house. Nearby, a large transport shuttle was just lifting off. Beside it hovered two smaller shuttles, both outfitted with hefty-looking phaser arrays. The Enterprise’s shuttles had some weaponry, but they were not meant for quick maneuvering in planetary atmosphere.
“Spock?” Kirk asked as Intah’s convoy spotted them and moved to defend.
“Their firepower is considerably superior,” Spock observed.
“Then you’d better be ready for some fancy co-piloting.”
--
When McCoy materialized in the main transporter room, he was relieved to see Montgomery Scott himself standing at the controls. Scott’s pleased smile turned to alarm when he saw McCoy supporting a semi-conscious man.
“What’s this about, then?” He rushed up onto the transporter pad to help, but he froze mid-way through the action. “McCoy…Is--?”
“Yes, it’s Chekov,” McCoy said wearily, and shifted his arm around his groggy patient.
Scott just stared. McCoy would have expected an outburst, maybe a shout or a hug, but instead the engineer just stood silent and still, as if the sight of Chekov alive had frozen him in his tracks.
“We’ve got to get him to sickbay,” McCoy said impatiently.
“Aye, of course,” Scott said, and shook himself out of his stupor to come help McCoy support Chekov. “Is he injured?”
“I don’t know,” McCoy said truthfully. His fingers itched for the suite of diagnostic tools in sickbay.
“Well what the hell went on down there?”
“I’ll explain later.” McCoy steered them toward the hallway. “What happened to the captain?”
“He and Commander Spock are handling the situation.”
At that moment, red alert began to blare.
McCoy rolled his eyes. “If you say so. Help me get him to sickbay, damn it.”
--
Pasha squinted in the bright light and tried to follow the whirlwind of activity around him. A loud, repetitive siren blared at regular intervals, accompanied by the flashing of a red light near the ceiling. From where Pasha lay on a high, pristine-white bed, he saw several men and women in blue and black uniforms rushing about. His master, now wearing a similar uniform, was among them. Pasha noted the way he snapped orders and the way everyone jumped to obey him. This must be his master’s military vessel.
Gingerly, for Pasha still felt slightly unsteady from the aftereffects of what his master had given him, he slid off the bed and straightened his clothes (new ones-someone had bathed him and dressed him in soft black pants and a long black shirt). His hand flew to his neck to find the collar still comfortingly secure. He wove his way through the chaos to his master’s side. He raised his hand to touch McCoy and alert him to his presence, but his master must have sensed him, for he whirled around and barked, “What?”
Pasha dropped to his knees and bowed his head, chagrined at having irritated his master in their first interaction in his new home.
“Damnit kid, I’m sorry.” When McCoy recognized Pasha, his whole manner changed. He bent down to grab Pasha by the arm and pulled him back to his feet. “Come on, you shouldn’t be up and about until we’re sure that sedative is out of your system.”
The red lights flashed one more time and then ceased, and the blaring noise also stopped. “Must have gotten them on board finally…” he said. Whatever he saw on Pasha’s face made him pat his shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry about all that. Just some trouble with the local authorities getting the captain back.”
The captain. Of course. Pasha had failed to impress McCoy, and now he would be given away. Here, in the clean brightness of McCoy’s ship, further struggle seemed futile. Pasha let McCoy lead him back to the bed, which was sheltered from the rest of the room by a wall. “You feeling okay? Lightheaded, dizzy?”
Pasha shook his head. This care, these continuous questions about his well-being, puzzled him. He couldn’t work out why McCoy was being so cautious around him, unless he thought Pasha was weak or infirm. Or this captain treated his slaves roughly, and McCoy wanted to make sure Pasha wouldn’t break too soon.
“We ran a few simple tests while you were out earlier, but I want to do an examination to make sure you’re healthy. If anything hurts, or if you don’t like what I’m doing, you need to tell me. Understand?”
Pasha nodded, but he resolved not to stop the examination no matter what McCoy did to him. He would show he wasn’t weak.
McCoy picked up a rectangular instrument that he pointed at Pasha. He held the thing at a distance and moved it up and down, frowning at the display. “Uh huh. Still no change in the vitals. You’re a little undernourished, but we can fix that easily enough.”
McCoy ran his thumb along Pasha’s collar. Pasha’s breath froze in his throat, and he hardly dared move, lest McCoy shy away from him again. “Sorry about this. I still can’t work out how to take it off without hurting you. We’ll figure it out, though. They’ll want to look at the information in that chip.”
Pasha reached up and linked a finger through his collar. If McCoy removed it, Pasha could be mistaken for an unclaimed slave or a runaway. Of course he would do as his master wished, but McCoy held some unorthodox ideas about slave ownership.
McCoy was pointing that strange device at him again, and frowning at what it told him. “The scan’s still not picking up anything wrong with your throat. Damn it.”
Pasha hung his head in contrition. Other masters hadn’t seen his muteness as a problem. A slave shouldn’t need to speak anyway, he’d been told repeatedly. His job was to listen and obey. But McCoy seemed to see his lack of a voice as a defect, another disappointment. His stomach clenched as the thought struck him that he might be deemed too damaged to be given to this captain at all, and instead face some even worse fate.
“How long has that been going on? You not being able to talk?” McCoy caught his mistake before Pasha faced the unenviable task of trying to explain a complicated answer. “Sorry, sorry. A long time?” Pasha nodded. “More than a month?” Pasha nodded again. “Do you remember being able to speak?”
Pasha nodded his head yes. Barely, but he remembered the early days of his training, before they’d taken away his strongest tool for fighting back.
McCoy waved the scanner closer to Pasha, and his frown returned. "Can you tell me what happened? I mean, did they do something to make you stop talking?”
Pasha considered for a moment how to make McCoy understand what they’d done. McCoy seemed to be irritated by reminders of Pasha’s slave status, or of his former masters, and he certainly didn’t like to see Pasha in pain-at least so far-so Pasha saw no need to go into detail about the early days of his training, even if he’d been able to. Instead, he wrapped a hand around his throat, above the collar, and pulled it away slowly.
“It’s the collar,” McCoy guessed. “The collar stops you talking?”
Pasha shook his head quickly. He’d have to work on finding better ways to express himself if McCoy kept demanding things from him no other master had been interested in. He put his hand out in front of him, palm down, then slapped it lightly.
McCoy frowned. “You were bad?”
Pasha nodded, pleased with himself for having conveyed his meaning, even if it was only to confess his inadequacy. He put his hand to his throat again, then pulled it away, closing his fingers into a fist and pushing it toward McCoy. When his master looked puzzled, he slapped his hand again, then touched his throat and drew his hand away.
“You were bad, so they took your voice away?”
Pasha nodded. The look McCoy gave him wasn’t displeasure, exactly, but Pasha didn’t like it. He had no excuse for upsetting his master. He wanted to convey to McCoy his gratitude at how well he’d treated Pasha so far, but he wasn’t sure how to do it without irritating McCoy further. Tentatively, he reached for his master’s hand. McCoy didn’t pull away, so Pasha drew his hand to his forehead and pressed it there, hoping that McCoy would recognize the expression of loyalty in the gesture.
McCoy allowed it for only a moment before pulling his hand away and sighing. “Listen, Chekov. I want you to understand something.” He pulled a chair over next to the bed and sat looking up at Pasha. “You don’t belong to anyone. You don’t have to kneel to anyone. Understand? I’m not your master. You’re your own man.”
Pasha dropped his eyes, unable to maintain a strong front any longer. McCoy obviously had no interest in Pasha, or any of the skills he could offer. He’d tried to the best of his abilities, but no action of his seemed to impress McCoy. He nodded reluctantly, just to show he’d heard, but he didn’t understand. If he didn’t belong to McCoy, then what would become of him?
--
“Where is he?” Kirk demanded as he barged into sickbay.
Nurse Chapel stopped him with a look and an upraised hand. “Where did all those bruises come from, Captain?”
“We got into a little scrape on Bussar. Where is he?” He tried to keep walking, but Chapel blocked his way.
“Who, sir?”
“Chekov! Where is he, Christine?”
She held up both hands and closed her eyes for a moment before she said, “Doctor McCoy is with him. But you have to understand, he’s not well.”
Kirk carefully schooled his expression, even as his heart plummeted. Commander Scott had sounded so genuinely thrilled that he’d assumed the best. He nodded to Chapel. “Anything I should know?”
“Doctor McCoy hasn’t said much,” Chapel said quietly. “But he’s not himself. He doesn’t know where he is, I think.”
“Can I see him?”
“They’re in the back.” Chapel led him as far as the wall that divided main sickbay from the exam area. Kirk steeled himself for what he might find, and stepped around the corner.
McCoy stood next to a bio bed, making a note with his stylus on a data padd. On the bed sat Chekov. His curls spilled over his ears in an unruly mess, and the black standard-issue shirt hung off his too-thin frame, but he was alive, and whole. Kirk couldn’t suppress the start of a relieved laugh. “Chekov!”
McCoy whirled around. Chekov started, jumped off the bed, and looked ready to flee until McCoy settled a hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright,” he said soothingly. Kirk couldn’t remember McCoy ever speaking so gently. “This is Captain Kirk.”
Chekov began to drop to his knees, but McCoy caught him under the arm.
“Woah.” Kirk came closer. “You okay there, Chekov?”
“He’s okay, Jim. He just wanted to kneel.” McCoy turned to Chekov and softened his tone. “Remember, you don’t have to do that.”
“Hey, a lot of people have that reaction to me.”
Bones shot him a sharp look, not a fondly exasperated roll of the eyes, but a cold glare that told Jim in no uncertain terms that he had gone too far.
“Go on kid. Go lie down,” McCoy ordered. When Chekov didn’t move, he added, “I’ll be right back.” Chekov nodded hesitantly and slunk back to sit on the bio bed without once raising his eyes. McCoy led Jim back to his office.
“He looks healthy,” Kirk offered.
“Physically he’s not too bad off.” McCoy slumped into his desk chair.
“But?”
“You saw him.” McCoy gestured vaguely, but seemed too dejected even to dig out the flask Kirk knew must be hiding somewhere in his desk. “Something they did to him messed with his mind.”
“Okay,” Kirk said slowly. “Like a drug?”
“Not exactly. I don’t know what the hell happened.” McCoy glanced toward the door of the office and lowered his voice. “He doesn’t remember us, the Enterprise, anything.”
“How do we fix it?”
“Until I do some more tests and figure out what exactly the problem is, I can’t say.”
“But he doesn’t remember.”
McCoy shook his head. “He doesn’t remember anything before he disappeared, near as I can tell.”
“What could cause that?”
“Head injury. Drugs. Some sort of illness, maybe. Hell, Jim, it could have been anything. We still don’t know who took him, or where he’s been all this time.” McCoy’s fist clenched hard at his side. “We barely know more than we did the day he disappeared.”
“Hey, it’s okay.” Kirk went to lean against the desk and put a steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. Just go have a look at him. Spock and I will deal with what we can find of the on-planet branch of the slave trade. If we come across anything that might explain what happened, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Thanks Jim.”
--
Sulu maneuvered the Enterprise back into orbit, maintaining their position above Bussar’s main continent.
“I can’t believe Kirk brought that shuttle in with just one engine,” Kelso said. “Those things are hard enough to fly when they’re working right.”
“Uh huh,” Sulu said absently.
“I can’t even imagine taking on an enemy ship in atmo with nothing but a shuttle. And three enemy ships… Man.”
“Uh huh.”
“Good thing to know he really can pilot. If there was an emergency or anything, I mean, I bet Kirk could fly the Enterprise just as easy as that shuttle.”
“Probably.”
“I mean, he could do my job too, maybe, but he seems like he’s a great pilot.”
Sulu was saved from having to suffer any more of Kelso’s chatter by Spock and Scotty arriving on the bridge. Spock had evidently stopped to change back into his uniform. He still looked bruised and a bit tousled, which wasn’t much considering what he’d been through on the planet, but on the usually impeccable first officer, a little bit of dirt and bruising seemed disproportionately serious.
“Commander,” Sulu said. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Mister Scott?” Spock went right for the science station without stopping by the command chair or asking for a report, which in itself was strange. Even after an absence of a few hours, Spock usually wanted to be brought up to speed on onboard events. Now, however, he and Scott bent over Spock’s station and began to talk in hushed tones. Kelso caught Sulu’s eye and shrugged dramatically, but then part of Spock’s conversation with Scotty grabbed Sulu’s attention.
“What did you say?” he asked. Spock turned around and raised an eyebrow at him, and Sulu realized he’d interrupted the conversation of two superior officers. “I’m sorry, Commander, I thought I heard… Heard something.”
Everyone else on the bridge, attuned to Sulu’s sharp tenseness, fell silent to listen to the exchange. Spock regarded him coolly for a moment, as if considering whether to answer. “I said Ensign Chekov is in sickbay.”
Sulu stared back at him. He couldn’t breathe in, couldn’t move. Even though he thought he’d heard the name, he hadn’t really believed it. “Chekov.”
“Doctor McCoy recovered him during the course of our mission on Bussar.”
Too many questions crowded up, tangling on Sulu’s tongue in their haste to be asked. On the whole bridge, the only sound was the ping of instruments.
Then Uhura spoke. “Sir, the governor is hailing us again.”
“Acknowledge. Lieutenant, please bring us into position directly above Buran.”
Sulu turned back to the controls, but his fingers didn’t seem able to move. His ears buzzed, and it wasn’t until a hand clasped his shoulder that he realized someone was addressing him.
He looked up, blinking, in the captain’s face. Kirk was back on the bridge. “Sulu. Maybe you should go down to sickbay.”
“Yes. Okay. Yes.” He stood up, gratefully that his body seemed to know what to do without his conscious control.
“Sulu.” Kirk drew him aside by the exit and spoke softly. “Don’t expect too much.”
Recovered him. That’s what Spock had said. Or at least that’s what Sulu thought he heard. Did Spock mean they’d recovered his body? Sulu could barely get the words past the tightness in his throat, “Is he alive?”
“Yes,” Kirk said quickly, shaking his head as if the alternative was too much to contemplate. “Sulu, yes, he’s alive, he’s up walking around. Just… Talk to McCoy before you try to see Chekov. Understand?”
“Yes sir.”
--
“I can’t figure the damn thing out.” McCoy pulled another tool off the shelf in the storage closet, looked at it in disgust, and tossed it back on the shelf. “There’s no clasp, no lock, nothing.”
Nurse Chapel stood in the doorway, wisely out of McCoy’s path. “Have you asked engineering?”
“That’s all I need,” McCoy snapped. “Montgomery Scott coming at the kid’s neck with a plasma torch. Liable to kill him as soon as get the thing off.”
“What about those Cyrillian pliers. You know, the ones we used when Commander N’tach went into premature labor? Remember, the Veri-insectoid?”
“Right, right, of course,” McCoy said absently.
“I’ll see if we still have them,” Chapel said, and ducked out of the supply closet. She hadn’t been out of sight a minute when shouting erupted from the main sickbay. “Doctor!”
McCoy made it to the doorway to see Hikaru Sulu flat on his back, blocking the flurry of blows Chekov aimed at his face from his position above the downed pilot.
“Chekov, stop!” McCoy shouted.
Chekov’s head snapped up. When he saw McCoy in the doorway, he instantly jumped up. One sharp step backwards took him clear of Sulu, and then he stood with head bowed, bruised fists hanging at his sides. “Sulu, what the hell did you do?”
Sulu stumbled to his feet. He wiped a hand across his bloody lip, but he looked more betrayed than hurt. “Nothing. I just came in to see him.”
“Well you must have done something worth attacking you for,” McCoy snapped. He went to stand between his patient and the bewildered helmsman.
“I didn’t even touch him! Wait…” Sulu’s expression turned thoughtful. “No, I did. He wouldn’t look at me. I didn’t even know if he was hearing me, so I went over by the bed. I put my hand on his shoulder. Then he attacked me.”
“Chekov!” McCoy turned. “Why the hell’d you hit him?”
Chekov dropped to his knees on the hard metal floor, making McCoy wince in sympathy-and pressed his forehead to the floor in the position of apology, of submission, that McCoy had come to loathe.
“No,” Sulu whispered. McCoy had forgotten that not everyone was used to displays like this from Chekov.
“It’s fine, Lieutenant,” he said, though of course it was nothing like fine. He lowered himself to the floor next to Chekov-too old for this, damnit-and spoke quietly. “Hey. Why did you attack him?”
Chekov sat up on his heels slowly. He looked hesitantly up at McCoy, then threw a quick glance at Sulu. A wrinkle creased his forehead, and McCoy recognized the telltale sign of Chekov working out how to convey a complex idea. Of course, the kid was brilliant, and he soon began gesturing determinedly.
He curled one hand against his chest, then tentatively lifted McCoy’s hand and pulled his own fist away from his body to settle it in the palm of McCoy’s hand.
“You were scared?” McCoy guessed.
Chekov shook his head and repeated the motion, pulling his clenched hand away from his chest and giving it to McCoy.
“You…You wanted to make something?”
Another frustrated shake of his head. Chekov furrowed his brow again, thinking, and tried something else. He took McCoy’s hand and pulled it gently against the front of his synthetic polymer collar.
“You… Oh. You belong to me.”
Chekov nodded emphatically.
“He doesn’t belong to anyone,” Sulu growled. “He’s a human being.”
“Shut up and listen,” McCoy snapped.
Chekov still looked troubled.
“What?” McCoy prompted.
Chekov hovered uncertainly, neither dropping back into his submissive posture nor making eye contact, as if there were more he wanted to communicate, but hesitated to do so.
“Tell me, Chekov.”
Chekov made the gesture once more, putting his fist into McCoy’s hand.
“Yeah, okay, you’re mine,” McCoy said, ignoring Sulu’s derisive snort.
Chekov pointed at Sulu, then with a sharp gesture, used his other hand to pull his fist away from McCoy.
“You thought he was trying to take you from me.”
Chekov held up both fists in a mockery of fighting stance.
“So you were defending my property.” Considering the way the other owners at that market treated their slaves, the behavior made sense.
Chekov nodded, and a small smile appeared at the pleasure of making himself understood.
“Well, you don’t need to beat up Sulu.”
Chekov’s smile dropped away. He made another sign, taking his hand first to Bones, then tentatively toward Sulu with a look of pained inquiry.
“No! I’m not going to hand you around like a damn party favor. You never have to worry about that, you hear? Is that what they did to you?”
Sulu clapped a hand down on McCoy’s shoulder. “Doctor, you’re scaring him.”
At McCoy’s angry tone, Chekov had shrunk back against the wall, folding himself into as small as space as possible.
“Damnit. I’m sorry.”
“Doctor…” Sulu’s voice was barely a whisper. “Is he all right?”
“No,” McCoy sighed. “Come here, Chekov.”
He slid forward across the floor until he was close enough to lay a hand on Chekov’s back. Immediately, as if a switch had been flipped, Chekov slid into position on his knees, head bowed, though he was still trembling. “Lieutenant Sulu won’t touch you, okay?” He hated feeling like he was talking to a child. Chekov was a Starfleet officer-a damn good one, too, whatever his age-and he shouldn’t be shaking in fear just because McCoy raised his voice. “He won’t touch you. He may come here to visit you if you say that’s alright, but he won’t touch.” McCoy rubbed gentle circles on Chekov’s back as he talked, and Chekov’s trembling subsided.
“Sulu.”
“Huh?” Sulu startled out of the half-trance he’d been in, staring at McCoy’s hand on Chekov.
“You need your face looked at? He do any damage?”
Sulu slowly shook his head. He hadn’t once taken his eyes from Chekov, although Chekov hadn’t looked back at him at all. “No. You…” He backed away slowly, shaking his head. “I should get back to the bridge.” He was gone before McCoy could say anything further.
--
Kirk’s senior staff had seldom been so distracted during a mission briefing. But each of the officers around the table seemed distant as the Fleet intelligence rep, Trenach, dissected the problems at hand. Kirk knew how they felt. McCoy’s usual seat at the table was vacant, and Kirk’s thoughts kept wandering to him, holed up in sickbay with their miraculously returned, though thoroughly damaged, navigator.
Trenach referred to his padd to broach the next point on his agenda. “What about the escort ships that came to rescue that transport?”
Spock turned to look at Sulu, but it took the helmsman a moment to realize he was being addressed. “Escort ships,” Spock prompted.
“We lost them, sir,” Sulu said. “They scattered while we were getting the captain’s shuttle back on board.”
“So you lost both the transport and the escort ships,” Trenach said. Kirk didn’t like the nasty edge in his voice.
“Yes, sir,” Sulu said through tightly clenched teeth. “We couldn’t disable them without risking the slaves aboard.”
“It’s not your fault,” Kirk broke in. “They knew we were coming, anyway. Lord Intah wasn’t as… open to negotiation as we were lead to believe. Starfleet’s strength is not exactly subtlety.”
“I apologize for any tactical insufficiency--,” Spock began.
“Cool it, Spock. You couldn’t have known. We did the best we could with the information we had at the time,” Kirk said. He met the eyes of each of his officers so they all knew they weren’t to blame for the relative failure this mission had become. “Besides, we may be able to track them.”
“How exactly do you propose to do that?” Trenach asked.
“We should be able to follow a sub-space transmitter that’s been modified to provide a long-range signal,” Kirk said reasonably.
“We could, if they had such a device, and if we just happened to know the frequency,” Trenach sneered.
“Or if I happened to drop my transmitter coin in our trader friend’s ship,” Kirk said, examining his nails with a self-satisfied smirk.
“You’re brilliant, Captain,” Scotty said.
Kirk grinned. “Sometimes.”
--
McCoy wasn’t surprised that Chekov looked wary when he approached with a wicked-looking pair of Cyrillian pliers. Post-traumatic stress hadn’t been a common problem back when McCoy was a simple country doctor, but here on the Enterprise he’d seen more PTSD symptoms than he cared to remember. McCoy could only imagine what horrors Chekov had endured to make him supplicate himself for mercy at every perceived mistake and flinch away from every stranger’s touch as if he expected a blow.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” McCoy said in a voice calculated so soothe. “I’m just going to get that damn collar off.”
Chekov linked his fingers through the front of his collar and backed up two quick steps.
“It’s not going to hurt, I promise.”
Chekov retreated two more steps, fell to his knees, and pressed his face to the floor.
“Damn it to hell,” McCoy breathed quietly. He had thought they’d gotten past this stage. He set the pliers on the biobed and dropped to a crouch beside Chekov. “What is this? What did I do? We’ve got to get that collar off.”
Chekov lifted up onto his knees and wrapped both hands protectively around the ring of synthetic material that circled his throat.
“You don’t want the collar off?”
Chekov nodded emphatically and wrapped his hands tighter around his neck.
“Why the hell not?”
Chekov pulled one finger against his collar, then brought his hand out in a loose fist and pushed it toward McCoy. He’d seen that gesture before. “You belong to me. Chekov, I told you--.”
Chekov nodded quickly, but his hands were moving again, so McCoy shut up and watched. Chekov touched his collar. He pointed in a wide arc behind McCoy, toward the rest of the ship, then pointed to his eyes and again to his collar.
“Everyone can see the collar.”
He pointed again: eyes, collar, McCoy.
“They can see you belong to me.”
Chekov nodded solemnly. He waved a finger at McCoy, and then pulled both hands away from his collar, as if pulling it off. He pointed again toward the rest of the ship. He covered his eyes, then uncovered them and looked at McCoy expectantly.
“If they don’t see the collar, then…?”
Chekov’s look of anticipation remained. He clearly expected McCoy to work this out for himself, but McCoy could only generate an uneasy suspicion, not an articulation of Chekov’s point.
After a moment, Chekov seemed to realize McCoy didn’t get it. His expression morphed into a determined frown, and his hands began moving again. He touched the collar, pointed beyond McCoy, and covered his eyes. Then he pointed again, to the mysterious “others” represented by the world beyond sickbay. He pointed to himself, then pulled his hand away quickly.
“You’re afraid they’ll take you away,” McCoy guessed.
Chekov held his two fists together and brought them out and apart in a quick, snapping motion.
“Oh. They’ll…” He couldn’t say break, so he settled for, “They’ll hurt you.”
Chekov nodded, apparently relieved that he’d conveyed his meaning at last.
“No, Chekov. Listen. I won’t let anyone hurt you. And they wouldn’t. Not Sulu, not Jim. No one wants to see you hurt.” McCoy took Chekov by the shoulders and made sure he had his attention. “Listen to me. You used to be an officer on this ship. You were… a friend of mine. Of all of us. And then, about a year ago, you were taken away. We’ve been looking for you. You’ve got a lot of friends on this ship, and they’re all very glad to have you back.”
Chekov gave a shallow nod, but it was clear he didn’t entirely believe what McCoy was telling him.
“Masters have lied to you before, haven’t they.”
Chekov seemed torn as to how to answer that, so McCoy waved him off. “Doesn’t matter. I won’t lie to you. Hell, I don’t lie to anyone, even when I should. No one’s going to hurt you on this ship. You belong here. You just don’t remember it. And we’ll figure out a way to get your memories back. In the meantime, you know what would make me happy?”
Chekov leaned forward in rapt fascination and nodded vigorously. He evidently very much wanted to know.
“Forget whatever they told you you had to do as a slave. You’re not a slave, here. You’re…” McCoy didn’t know what the hell he was. He couldn’t be a member of the crew, not in his state. He wasn’t a prisoner, certainly, and he was more than a patient. “Just pretend you’re my guest. I want you to feel at home here. Can you try that?”
Chekov nodded reluctantly.
“Good. Now let me get that collar off you.”
--
Pasha slid his hand around his naked throat, reveling in the novelty of a bare neck. McCoy had told him to rest, but he couldn’t sleep here in this sterile cage of steel and glass. Besides, his master-no, McCoy: he didn’t like to be thought of as master-McCoy hadn’t slept since Pasha awoke here.
Even now Pasha could see McCoy rushing about his domain, engaged in a tense conversation with the blue-uniformed woman who was so often at his side. They passed out of his sight, so Pasha slid off the narrow bed and crept over to the entryway to get a better view.
“And you won’t see a single patient more until you do,” the woman was saying.
“I’m the Chief Medical Officer. I’ll be in charge of my own health, thank you very much.”
“I’ll tell the captain you haven’t slept in twenty-four hours.”
“That’s fighting dirty, Christine. Fine. Just let me check on him one more time.”
“I think he’s way ahead of you.” The woman-Christine-looked Pasha’s way and winked at him.
McCoy turned back and caught him standing there in the doorway. Pasha reined in the instinct to shrink back or flee. He hadn’t done anything wrong. For any other master he would have stepped forward, knelt, and waited for orders. But McCoy didn’t want that. So instead Pasha dropped his eyes deferentially and waited to be acknowledged.
“Go back to sleep, kid.” McCoy patted him gingerly on the shoulder and waved back toward the room Pasha had come from. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Pasha grabbed McCoy’s arm, but when McCoy turned, startled, to look at him, he dropped his hold immediately and returned his eyes to the floor. His behavior didn’t become his training. A slave belonged to the master, not the master to the slave. McCoy could go where he pleased without regard for Pasha. He would have to conquer his selfish fear at being left alone on this strange ship with people who expected him to be someone he wasn’t.
“What’s wrong?”
Pasha looked back at the bed where McCoy had put him, cold and sterile in the white light of this place, and turned back to McCoy. He wanted to kneel, but knew it would only irritate his master, so instead he steeled himself and did as McCoy had commanded: tried to act more like a guest than a slave. He pointed to the door, then at McCoy, and looked at his master expectantly, framing a question.
“Yes, I’m going back to my quarters.”
Pasha pointed to himself, then at McCoy.
“No,” McCoy said quickly. “You stay here. If you don’t want to stay in sickbay, I suppose we can have some quarters made up tomorrow, but you should stay here for observation. We still don’t know what all they did to you.”
Pasha pointed to himself again, then at McCoy. McCoy turned back to the woman, who only gave him an enigmatic shrug.
“Bad idea,” McCoy said. “Very bad.”
Once more, Pasha laid a hand on his own chest, and held his hand out toward McCoy.
“Damn it, this is a bad idea,” McCoy said, but he took Pasha’s hand and pulled him toward the door.
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