NEW:TOS The Taming, 1/6, C/m, R, 1/6

Note: This story is also available, with several others which are not going to be posted onto the internet any time soon, in zine form. Chekov Uncovered #1 (and #2 for that matter) is available from Linda Knights. See her zine http://www.nas.com/~lknight/web-ads/web-ads.html

For adult Chekov fiction on the web, visit http://www.fortunecity.com/tattooine/heinlein/80/w.htm

Disclaimer: Paramount etc. This story features m/m sex. Please don't read it if that offends you.

Summary: Post feminist scholarship revisits Shakespeare, or, as Chekov would say, God, I hate literature.

"Is this the one you wanted?" The guard pushed Chekov into the room in front of him.

The only occupant of the room was a big Klingon who had his feet propped up on a table. He was drinking yellow liquor from a long necked bottle. He smiled at the ensign -- well, Chekov wasn't actually sure it was a smile -- the Klingon bared an uneven row of pointed teeth at him and said, "Yes. Go away."

The ensign immediately sensed that something wasn't quite right... Now that was an understatement. The situation had been far from "quite right" for the past day and a half.

Things had started to go wrong when the Klingons cordoned off a corner of what the Federation considered Federation space. Chekov was one of several officers from the Enterprise recruited to help get supplies to Federation colonists trapped inside the Klingon blockade. The ensign thought he had drawn a relatively easy assignment. He only had to pilot his cargo -- medical supplies, or so he was told -- and three passengers -- two of whom were definitely doctors (the third seemed more well informed on military tactics) -- to a prearranged drop point. There they were to have met a second ship. After beaming his passengers and cargo aboard, the ensign was to return to Starbase 16 -- possibly for more cargo and passengers.

Instead, the ensign and his tiny ship were met at the pre-arranged coordinates by a cloaked Klingon bird of prey. They were boarded and taken prisoner without being given the chance to offer a great deal of resistance.

So, instead of drinking at his favorite bar near Starbase 16 as he had planned to be doing at this point, Pavel Chekov found himself a prisoner of war inside a Klingon vessel, standing with his hands manacled in front of him in what looked more like someone's sleeping quarters than an interrogation room.

'Perhaps they don't have a proper interrogation room,' Chekov thought as the Klingon stood up.

Although he might not have the proper accommodations, this Klingon certainly looked like a professional interrogator. He was huge, dark-skinned and hideously ugly. He kept his bottle with him and took occasional swigs from it as he approached the ensign. Something like amusement was in the Klingon's small eyes as he paced a circle around the ensign, leisurely sizing him up.

Chekov stood his ground, meeting the Klingon's gaze evenly. Despite their superior size and strength, the ensign knew that Klingons rarely used physical force to coerce information from captives. They had developed fearsome mechanical devices that did that job for them quite efficiently. This was probably only an attempt to intimidate him -- to gain a psychological advantage. Chekov squared his shoulders. The Klingon was wasting his time. The ensign would save his fear for the machines.

"I suppose you're assuming you're here to be interrogated," the Klingon said at last.

Chekov blinked at him. "What else would I have been brought here for?"

The Klingon took another long swig from his bottle, then capped it and tossed it onto his bunk. "You've been allotted to me," he explained, taking the ensign by the arm and pulling him forward. "Come here. I want to look at you."

"I'm a prisoner of war," Chekov protested, digging his heels in. "Under the terms of the latest treaty signed by our respective governments, I can't be given work assignments unless..."

The Klingon grinned at him -- this time Chekov was sure it was a grin. "This isn't a work assignment."

The ensign pulled away from him. It was as though his brain was functioning in slow motion. He knew something was very wrong here, but still couldn't figure out exactly what.

The Klingon was unperturbed by his resistance. "You're well made for a human," he said appreciatively.

In a sudden streak of panic, the ensign knew exactly what was going on. It was like a scene from a bad propaganda film. If it weren't so patently real, the situation would be so melodramatic as to be laughable. He glanced quickly around him. There was no place to run. The quarters were small and exceedingly bare.

"I am a prisoner of war," Chekov said, as evenly as possible. His heart thudded as he backed slowly towards the door which he prayed had been left unlocked. "There are certain regulations..."

"You're not a prisoner of war -- not anymore." The Klingon calmly retrieved his bottle from his bed. "Officially, you died a few moments ago attempting escape -- a noble death that will do neither you nor your family any dishonor."

The door didn't automatically open when Chekov's back came in contact with it. He spun and attempted to activate the release manually.

"Unofficially, you've been allotted to me -- as I said," the Klingon continued, ignoring the ensign's futile struggles with the lock.

"This can't be happening." Chekov closed his eyes and leaned against the unyielding metal. "I refuse to accept this situation." He turned to face the Klingon, who was once more approaching him. "This is completely unacceptable. I demand to be..."

"The rules are very simple," the Klingon said, dragging him forward by the arm. "If you attempt to leave this room, I will beat you. If you disobey me, I will beat you." The Klingon laughed. "And sometimes I may simply beat you for pleasure. Do you understand?"

Chekov pulled out of his grasp. "I demand to be returned to the security holding area with the other prisoners," he said, backing away breathlessly.

"No, you're mine now. You're going to stay here. Do you understand? You're going to stay here and do as I say. Understand?" Receiving no answer, the Klingon pointed to his bunk. "Now, go sit on the bed."

Chekov looked around the room, preparing to run and trying desperately to locate a place to run to.

"I said, go to the bed," the Klingon repeated slowly and loudly.

Chekov shook his head. "I don't intend to do anything of the sort."

The Klingon took a menacing step forward. "You aren't paying attention to the rules, Human. I said that if you don't obey my orders, I will beat you. Now, I order you to go to the bed."

"I have no intention of following any of your orders at any time," Chekov spat back.

The Klingon lunged forward with unexpected speed and agility for someone of his size. Chekov almost got away from him -- almost. The ensign's feet suddenly lost contact with the deck and he found himself kicking at air, wrapped securely in the giant's arms. "Then this," the Klingon growled in his ear, "will be only the first of many beatings."

Chekov kicked at the giant's legs and bit at the arms encircling him, but his captor was no more affected than he would have been by the struggling of a child. The Klingon threw him across the foot of the bunk, momentarily knocking the air out of the ensign.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, jerking Chekov's head up by his hair. "Have I killed you, Human?"

"Let me go, you Klingon bastard!" the ensign wheezed as soon as he was able.

"To be called Klingon is not an insult," his captor informed him, pressing him securely face down against the hard bunk with one knee while he reached for something out of sight. "To be called a bastard is not always an insult either. Do you speak Klingonese?"

"Let me go, you filthy cossack!" Chekov said, regaining the strength if not the leverage to struggle.

"'Cossack' I do not understand." The Klingon shifted position so that he was straddling the ensign's back. Largely ignoring the Chekov's efforts to resist, he pulled the ensign's manacled wrists out from under him and fitted a u-shaped piece into a hole in the restraints. "I will teach you to swear in Klingonese so I can tell if you mean to insult me," the Klingon said, pressing the u-shaped piece against the floor.

It stuck fast, Chekov discovered to his dismay as he tried to jerk his wrists free. The giant switched positions again, still sitting on the ensign's back but turned now so he was facing the opposite direction. He caught one of the ensign's feet and pulled his boot off.

"What delicate little white feet you have," the Klingon commented admiringly, caressing his insole while Chekov kicked at him with all his might with his free leg.

Chekov replied with a phrase that he thought would be clear even in translation.

"You must be speaking metaphorically," the Klingon said, grabbing his other foot and discarding its boot also. "I speak serviceable Standard, but I don't understand metaphors."

Chekov made a most prosaic suggestion.

"Much better," the Klingon said, wrapping one huge hand around both the ensign's ankles. "That I can understand. You must express yourself clearly, Human. Now, are you going to lie still while I discipline you, or must I chain your feet as well?"

"Let me go, you filthy Klingon son of ...."

"Just as I thought."

Chekov felt cold metal clamp around his ankles. He tried to prevent them from being pressed to the floor on the opposite side of the bunk, but he might as well have been trying to push the bird of prey off course with his bare hands. The Klingon did finally get off his back.

"You were an officer, were you not?" His captor asked putting his hands underneath the back of ensign's collar. Chekov didn't have enough advanced warning to suppress his sharp intake of breath as the giant suddenly ripped open the backseam of his jumpsuit. He was -- or had been, now -- wearing a nondescript grey coverall instead of a Star Fleet uniform. It split neatly in two the way a uniform would not have. "A most junior officer?"

Chekov didn't answer. For a moment, he stopped pulling at the restraints that held him. His mind wanted to disassociate, to deny the reality of the situation. But that didn't help. It didn't change that fact that for reasons he didn't understand he'd been delivered into the hands of this Klingon who had subdued him effortlessly and now had him bent, chained, helpless, and partially naked over the foot of his bunk.

The Klingon stuck a strip of what looked like the tanned hide of some animal under his eyes. "I am going to beat you as befits your former rank," the Klingon explained, turning the strip over. "An enlisted soldier you may beat with anything that comes to hand, but we beat our junior officers only with l'tatchi hide like this."

His anger rapidly replacing his fear, Chekov looked up at the Klingon who was squatting near him, stroking the strip with two fingers.

"It hurts," his captor assured him. "but doesn't leave scars if handled properly. An officer should get his scars from battle, not from the hands of a displeased superior."

Chekov clenched his teeth. "You have no right to..."

"This is an event of note," the Klingon interrupted fishing around for his bottle. "The first time I have occasion to beat you. We should drink. You should drink so you can endure it bravely."

Chekov tried to shake free of his captor as the Klingon pulled his head up and tilted the bottle to his lips, but more than a mouthful of the fiery yellow liquid ended up down his throat.

"I'll have you to teach you not to waste good llarth," the Klingon commented, rising as the ensign choked and gagged on the alien liquor.

Chekov was still coughing and sputtering when the first stroke of the lash landed on his back.

"Good, good!" the Klingon said, continuing to lay the blows on thick and fast. "You don't cry out."

"You filthy, mother-defiling, Klingon..." Chekov cursed loudly, as tried to twist out from under the Klingon's lash.

"To call me a Klingon is not an insult," his tormentor reminded him, generously spreading his blows up and down the length of the ensign's spine.

Chekov called him something that he thought would be an insult in any language.

"Good!" The Klingon congratulated him by pouring liquor onto his back, turning each welt into a blistering line of agony. "So you feel your punishment now?" he asked, as the ensign howled and writhed. "You know now what a beating feels like. Right, Human? Perhaps you will know to avoid one in the future."

When he had the breath to speak, the ensign predicted the final disposition of his captor's immortal soul for him.

"You're speaking metaphorically again," the Klingon said, sitting down cross-legged on the bed and sipping from his nearly depleted bottle. "I will teach you to curse like a man -- perhaps tomorrow."

"Let me go." Chekov clenched his teeth and willed himself not to feel the stinging welts rising on his back. "You have no right..."

"You scream and curse like a woman." The Klingon reached out and patted the ensign's face roughly. "But I like you all the more for it. It makes you angry to be bound and beaten, doesn't it?"

Chekov pulled away as much as he was able to. "Get your hands off me, you filthy..."

"Why do you use 'filthy' as an insult?" the Klingon asked, kicking off his boots. "Do you expect everyone to have pretty clean white skin like yours?"

Tired of linguistic arguments, Chekov reverted to cursing the Klingon in his native language.

"I do not understand you at all now, Human."

"I don't care," the ensign replied. "I understand myself."

The Klingon laughed. "You have spirit."

"I'll kill you when I get the chance," Chekov promised.

"Good, good." The Klingon nodded his head approvingly. "I like your honesty. I will never punish you for being honest with me."

The ensign fumed silently as the Klingon finished off the last of his bottle and cast it aside. "Good llarth. We will drink again after the first time I take you sexually."

The ensign's throat went dry and his brain refused to supply a suitable reply.

"It won't be like this, though." The Klingon lay down on the bunk. He crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back, propping his huge, rough feet on Chekov's bare back. "I won't take you by force. You have that on my honor as a Klingon. No, I've decided that I will wait until you seduce me."

Chekov was too stunned for a moment to reply. "That will never happen," he forced himself to retort after a moment. His voice sounded weak in his own ears.

"Yes, it will," the Klingon said confidently as he reached out and dimmed the lights. "I must sleep now. I have an early watch tomorrow."

"Let me go!" Chekov tried desperately to wrench himself free.

"Quiet, Human." The Klingon shoved the ensign back into place using just his feet. Settling down into his bunk, the Klingon crossed his legs and laid them like two logs across the ensign's back. He then added magnanimously, "Though you may weep if you wish to."

* * *

"Wake up, Human."

Chekov was roused by a swat across a part of his anatomy that wasn't normally as bare or bruised as it was at this moment. He didn't remember having slept at all. If the situation itself weren't enough to keep one awake, that infernal Klingon's snoring alone could have roused the dead.

"What..?" He asked as something hissed at his neck.

"That was your breakfast, Human," the Klingon replied folding a hypo back into its case.

That at least was consistent with the treatment the ensign had been receiving thus far. The Klingon replicators weren't set up to create human food, so they'd been feeding their prisoners with nutrient injections for the past two days.

Chekov started as something cold and slimy dropped onto his back.

The Klingon pushed his head back down against the bed. "Down. It's just a salve. I want your back to heal quickly so you will be ready for me to beat you again tonight."

"Marvelous," the ensign replied groggily.

"I'm glad you think so."

The Klingon had worked the ointment in halfway down his spine before Chekov remembered exactly where he was and who was doing this to him. "Get your filthy hands off me," he said, struggling to roll out from under his captor's hands.

"Quiet," the Klingon replied, patiently slamming him back in place and holding him there by placing one knee on the ensign's shoulders.

Smashed into the hard mattress as he was, the ensign had little choice but to squirm futily and bear the rest of his captor's humiliatingly thorough ministrations in silence. He was rewarded for his cooperation by another stinging swat on his backside.

"You'll live," the Klingon pronounced, releasing the restraints around the ensign's ankles before heading off to a small closet-like room that Chekov had not noted before but was now visible through an open door. It turned out to be the room's head.

While the Klingon washed his hands and returned the ointment to a storage cabinet, the ensign took advantage of his new freedom. He painfully and awkwardly maneuvered his stiff and aching body so it was all on one side of the bed. This was somewhat complicated by the fact that his torn coveralls seemed to fall off him a little more with every movement.

"See." The Klingon returned, holding up his hands. "Clean. Not 'filthy'."

He made no comment on the fact that his captive was now kneeling beside the bunk trying to pry the u-shaped piece loose from the deck.

"I demand to be returned to the security holding area," Chekov said stubbornly, refusing to be cowed by his own pathetic condition. "I am a prisoner of war. Your treatment of me is in violation..."

"I have an early watch today," the Klingon interrupted. "And a tactical briefing later on. I may also be called upon to assist with the interrogation of your former comrades."

Chekov frowned. "Wait. Do you mean to say that I alone am..."

"So I may not return for several hours," the Klingon continued as if the ensign hadn't spoken. He took a filament out of his pocket and inserted it in a tiny socket in the top of the u-bar. The piece came free of the floor as if suddenly demagnetized. "If I have time, perhaps I will look in on you."

He rose and put the two u-bars and the manacles he'd used on the ensign's ankles into a compartment in the wall near the head of his bed. "Remember my rules, Human," he warned, as if in parting.

"Wait!" Chekov held his manacled wrists out. "Aren't you going to unfasten these?"

The Klingon shrugged. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because it makes you angry." The Klingon grinned as he bent down and pinched Chekov's cheek. "And I like you very much when you are angry."

"Filthy cossack!" the ensign swore, jerking away.

"No, very clean," the Klingon corrected before turning to leave. "You may sleep if you wish," he said, pausing at the door. "Or..." He smiled broadly as if he thought he was telling a good joke. "...Fret and fume if that suits you better."

"Bastard Klingon," Chekov cursed at the closed door. He looked around him. The quarters were as bare as a detention cell. There was no ornament in the room at all. No personal possessions in evidence. Perhaps all his captor's personal effects were kept in compartments like the one near the bed.

The ensign struggled to his feet. Pulling his coveralls back up over his shoulders, he crossed to the wall. There seemed to be the outlines of several compartments. He tested the mechanism to open one. It didn't respond. The lock looked as though it might be thumbprint activated -- not his thumbprint, obviously.

Chekov stepped back and looked at the wall. A sensible arrangement, really. If one kept all his belongings in compartments, one would never return after a battle or some other turbulence to find one's quarters looking like a hurricane had passed through. The ensign wondered if this was the Klingon's usual preference, or if this was a special accommodation for his... house guest.

The ensign decided not to dwell on that line of thought and took another look around the room. The cabin was around twelve feet square -- moderately large as ship cabins went -- and had its own small bathroom. His captor must be a very senior officer.

"Obviously, obviously," Chekov scolded himself impatiently. It irritated him that he wasn't able to banish the Klingon from his mind. "I must concentrate on finding a means of escape."

To that end, he went into the bathroom. It was as small as it was starkly utilitarian. Both the sink and the toilet folded out from the wall. It looked as though both had to be retracted to properly operate the shower.

'A very small facility for such a large man,' the ensign thought before he could stop himself. Shaking his head at his inability to cease speculating about his captor, Chekov finally spotted what he was looking for -- a large ventilation grille near the floor under the sink.

If this ship's construction was analogous to Federation vessels, there would be a duct behind that grille big enough for a man to crawl through. That was a very big if, though. Klingon design tended to be rather parsimonious. The air ducts on Federation vessels weren't exactly ample, either. Chekov had crawled through one in an Academy survival test years ago. He'd been the only one on his team small enough to make the attempt, and at that he'd ended up paying for his success with skinned spots down his arms and back.

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," he decided.

He now needed something to help him get through the grille. He tested several of the compartment locks in front of him and was surprised when one of them opened. A small drawer slid out revealing the storage place of a wide-toothed comb. Not exactly what he needed. It was actually quite a fragile object, carved out of some sort of bone. Pieces of coarse brown hair were still tangled in it. Chekov replaced the comb and slid the drawer closed. It did give him hope, though. If the Klingon had been careless enough to leave one drawer unlocked, he might have been careless enough to leave two...

The ensign returned to the sleeping quarters and began a painstaking location and testing of each lock or control. He lost track of time. It began to seem like ages. Nothing responded to his touch. He couldn't even turn the room's lights off or on. There were several compartments that were out of his reach.

"Those are definitely unlocked," he decided pessimistically. "And filled with Klingon battle axes."

There was only one chair in the room and it was bolted down in front of the table that extended out from the wall. He'd had no luck with the compartments he could access by standing on the table or the bunk.

Chekov half-heartedly pressed another lock. A drawer full of clothing slid out nearly hitting him in the stomach. The ensign sifted through it eagerly.

"Damn," he swore softly, discovering it contained nothing else. "I thought Klingons always wore weapons."

Another dead end. He closed the drawer and surveyed the room in frustration. In the midst of absently pulling his overly well-ventilated coveralls back up over his shoulders, Chekov remembered that he did have a need that could be filled by a drawer full of clothing.

He sorted through until he found a pair of black pants. Grossly oversized, of course, but they'd have to do. He had to use his teeth to help rip the shoulders and arms out his coveralls before he could discard the garment and get into his new finery. He tore a sash made out of gold fabric in half and converted it into a satisfactory belt. He ripped open the inseams of the excess length at the bottoms of the pants legs, then tied that extra material around his ankles. The ensign took a few experimental steps. A loose fit, but a vast improvement over his former state. He picked up a vest from the drawer, but there was no way to get it on with his wrists manacled.

Chekov was about to replace the garment when he noticed several metal bars on the chest and shoulder -- rank and division insignia, probably. Too small and dull-edged for weapons, but as tools...? The ensign bit into the fabric and ripped out a bar. There were six in all. By the time he got to the fourth one, he was beginning to feel like his teeth were going to start yielding before the tough Klingon fibers did.

With renewed confidence, he took his booty to the bathroom and knelt down under the sink. It took him nearly a half an hour of painstaking work to extract the ventilation unit. It left a hole that was only inches tall and less than a metre long. He reached inside the darkness, hoping the rumors about rat-like creatures infesting Klingon ships weren't true. It was relatively easy to disable the contact points holding the entire panel in place.

Chekov closed his eyes and breathed a great sigh of relief. He knew this was a stroke of luck. The panel could have just as easily been welded into place. Apparently ventilation ducts, as on some older Federation vessels also doubled as power conduits and had to be accessible for repairs. This meant he stood the chance of accidentally electrocuting or irradiating himself on his voyage out, but that was a gamble he was willing to take.

'Better to die than to stay,' he decided as he crawled into the duct and carefully pulled the panel closed behind him. It was murky inside the duct after he replaced the ventilation unit. He had enough space to crawl on his hands and knees without touching the sides. Crawling with one's wrists fastened together was tricky, but not impossible, he found. The ensign moved steadily towards the next point of bright light. Peering through the open vent, he saw what looked like a room very like the one he'd just left. It was empty, but not very promising. He retraced his path and took a different juncture.

He liked the next view better. This vent opened into what seemed to be a storage room. Chekov crossed his fingers and hoped it contained armaments of some sort.

The panel was much easier to remove from the inside. He worked as quietly as possible, gently leaning the panel against a stack of containers before crawling out. The room was lighted but empty. From the diagrams on the containers, they seemed to contain spare machine parts.

Chekov shrugged. Boxes of machine parts weren't as good as boxes of sonic grenades would have been, but they would probably make into better weapons than a handful of metal rank pins.

He had some difficulty opening the first container that he came to. The latch was designed for someone stronger who wouldn't have any trouble getting his hands more than six inches apart. The ensign had almost worked out a way to substitute his elbow as an extra hand, when the door slid open.

The two armed guards that stepped through didn't even glance around the room. They headed for him as if they knew in advance exactly where he'd be. Chekov dove for the duct, but one of the guards caught him by the ankles and dragged him back out.

They let him hang onto the duct's frame for a moment while they discussed something in Klingonese. Apparently they found something amusing about the situation, for they both laughed before one kicked his fingers loose. While one guard held him pinned in a half-nelson, the other carefully retrieved all the rank pins Chekov had scattered in his flight. Instead of letting him walk, they carried him between them. One held his arms while the other grasped his feet. They laughed and talked to each other as they carried him down the corridor -- as if they found the whole thing very humorous.

Chekov was far from amused. He hoped for a moment that he was being taken back to the security holding area, but it quickly became clear they were taking him back to the room he'd escaped from. The ensign redoubled his struggles. All that did was make one guard temporarily lose his grip. They drug him along the deck the last few feet before the Klingon's cabin door.

The ensign half-expected to find his captor there waiting for him, but the room was as empty as he'd left it. The guards had a brief discussion -- probably about where to put him from the way they were sighting things out. Apparently coming to decision, they stood him facing the wall near the head of the Klingon's bunk. One guard held the ensign's manacled wrists up into the proper position while the other secured them there with a u-bar.

One guard grinned and said something to him as he held out the handful of bent rank pins then placed them in a neat pile on the bunk. He was probably saying the Klingon equivalent of, "You're really going to get it now."

Chekov wished them both a very unpleasant end in a language that he was quite sorry they didn't understand.

They laughed before leaving him to his fate.

It didn't take his fate a long time to arrive. Chekov barely had time to kick the wall a few times before the cabin door slid open again.

"Have you no ears, Human?" the Klingon thundered, crossing the space between them in a few giant steps. "Have I not made the rules simple enough for you?" He held up two thick, black-gloved fingers in Chekov's face. "First, I said you must not try to escape. Second, I said you must not disobey me. Immediately you disobey me and now the moment I leave you, you try..."

The Klingon abruptly stopped speaking and looked his prisoner up and down carefully. "What are you wearing?" he asked, his eyes resting narrowly on the remains of his gold sash.

"You destroyed what I what I arrived in," Chekov reminded him, then shrugged. "I had to improvise."

"That's my uniform," the Klingon growled, grabbing the ensign by one pants leg and pulling it out for a better view. "That was my dress uniform!"

"It's very nice material," Chekov commented unrepentantly as the Klingon's attention was drawn to the pile of bars on the bunk.

"What have you done?" The Klingon scooped them up and examined each mutilated treasure individually. "You thieving little son of a whore..."

"You must be speaking metaphorically," Chekov replied lightly. "I'm having trouble grasping your meaning."

An iron hand shot out and wrapped around his neck.

"Don't worry," the Klingon snarled into his ear. "I'm going to make my displeasure perfectly clear to you in a few moments."

The Klingon slammed him against the wall, then stalked over to the drawer Chekov had raided. The ensign looked over his shoulder in time to catch the expression on the Klingon's face as he held up his ruined vest.

The Klingon bared his teeth at him. "I love you for your spirit, Human," he said, his voice rapidly climbing towards a shout, "but I may have to kill you for your insolence!"

"Then kill me." Chekov met his gaze evenly. "I would prefer death to this sort of captivity."

For a moment, the ensign thought the Klingon might kill him. The Klingon's hand strayed to the knife in his belt -- Klingons did wear weapons all the time, perhaps that's why Chekov hadn't been able to find any -- but he didn't take it out of its sheath.

"No. You live," the Klingon said instead. He crossed to the wall compartment and took out his strip of l'tatchi hide. He pushed the ensign roughly into position facing the wall. "You will live and learn to respect my rules."

The Klingon led off with a flurry of blows that instantly imbued the ensign with a respect for the power of his captor's arm. Chekov bit his lips and willed himself not to cry out this time, but the Klingon's fury and the bruises and abrasions from the previous day's misadventures were all arguing against him. The Klingon continued to lay the stripes on thick and fast until the ensign knew he wasn't going to be able to stand another minute without screaming.

Then, abruptly, the lash ceased to fall. The ensign released the shuddering breath he'd been holding. Without warning, the Klingon struck him one last blow, catching him off guard and eliciting the sort of anguished noise he'd been trying to cheat his tormenter.

The Klingon grunted in satisfaction as he folded the strip of hide and placed it neatly back in its compartment. "You felt that one, didn't you, Human?"

Chekov wasn't able to reply yet. He leaned against the wall and tried to catch his breath as he watched the Klingon take a disruptor into the bathroom.

"They say you crawled out through here." The Klingon used the disruptor to fuse the panel then the ventilation grille in place. "I'll make it less tempting for you."

"As for my uniform..." The Klingon gathered up his ruined vest and rank pins, dumped them into their drawer, then locked it with a flourish. "...This will serve to remind me to be more careful in the future."

Chekov held his tongue as the Klingon walked over and stood next to him. The ensign knew that if he asked to be unchained that was the last thing his captor would do.

"As for you..." The Klingon looked at him speculatively for a moment, then smiled. "As punishment for your insolence, you will remain like this until I return."

"Wait!" Chekov cried out as the Klingon reached out and loosened the gold sash knotted around his waist. "What are you trying to..?!!"

"There." The Klingon pulled the belt free.

By quickly pressing himself flat against the wall, the ensign was able to keep his borrowed pants from immediately falling off -- almost. The too-large waistband sagged dangerously down one hip.

"You'll make a pretty sight for the surveillance screen monitors to gawk at all this shift."

"Surveillance..?" So that's how the guards had known exactly where to find him.

"You didn't realize that? On an Imperial vessel, treachery abounds. To maintain order, each Klingon is subject to being monitored at all times." His captor gestured at the ceiling. "Even I don't know where the security cameras are in this room. I simply know that they're there. I am observed. As my chattel, you are doubly observed. They only let you get so far away because you were doing so in amusing way."

The Klingon definitely didn't look amused. Chekov swallowed. "You can't leave me like this."

"Keep your head up, Human," his captor advised tapping him under the chin. "Since you were brazen enough to commit the offense, you must now be brazen enough to endure your punishment."

When the ensign made no reply, the Klingon reached out and casually batted the waistband a little further past the point of modesty. "You make an enchanting sight indeed, my Human."

"Let me go," Chekov demanded, sliding against the wall in an effort to make up lost ground.

"Don't worry," the Klingon said, heading for the exit. "I'll try to remember to lock the door."

* * *

The rest of the afternoon there was very little for the ensign to do other than to fight a losing battle to keep his pants from settling around his ankles and alternately turn red with humiliation and white with anger.

* * *

"What a welcoming sight," the Klingon commented, re-entering what seemed like a very, very long time later.

Chekov made no reply and kept his face to the wall.

"The surveillance monitors agree with me," his captor continued, taking off his weapons one by one and placing them in a drawer that extended from the wall on the other side of the bunk. "You are well-made for a human. They suggest that tomorrow for punishment, I leave you as you are... but merely turn you around."

His captive did not join in his laughter as he crossed to him and leaned one arm against the wall the ensign was bound to.

"Are you going to leave me like this forever?" Chekov asked from between clenched teeth.

"It's tempting." The Klingon smiled. "Bound, stripped, and freshly disciplined... I must tell you, you were lucky I tripled locked the door."

"Let... Me... Down... Now," the ensign demanded slowly and dangerously.

"This afternoon there was much laughter at your expense," the Klingon told him, reaching for the gold sash. "But this morning there had been much laughter at my expense because of the way you stole my clothing and shamed me for my carelessness by using my medals as a tool to help you escape."

The ensign made no reply and refused to look at anything other than the wall in front of him as the Klingon pulled his oversized trousers back up to his waist.

"Do you understand, Human?" he asked, tying them in place with the sash. "All things will fall even in the end. If you try to make a fool of me, both of us will suffer."

Chekov had never been in less of a mood for object lessons in Klingon social codes in his entire life.

"You don't speak," the Klingon observed, unlocking the u-bar.

Not answering or looking his captor in the eye, the ensign held his wrists out to be released. When after a moment it became apparent that that action was not forthcoming, he turned towards the open bathroom door. "I noticed the room is equipped with a sonic shower. I'd like to use it if that's permissible."

"Kjsizhti wave, not sonic," the Klingon corrected, folding his arms.

"The nomenclature makes no difference," Chekov replied cooly. "They are analogous technologies."

The Klingon grunted as if he didn't think it appropriate for a disgraced captive to take such a superior tone, but after a moment he headed into the bathroom. "As you wish. I'll set the controls for you."

There wasn't room enough for both of them in the tiny chamber at once -- not that Chekov had any intention of joining the Klingon. He waited until the other man stepped out.

"There," the Klingon said, gesturing him in. "Once you step under the beam, you'll have three minutes."

Chekov silently held his wrists out again. The Klingon only folded his arms in response.

The ensign blew out a long breath. What had he ever done in his entire life to deserve this? "I don't suppose you're going to let me close the door either."

The Klingon shook his head. "It's not necessary... And if the door is closed, I am robbed of the pleasure of watching you."

"Well," Chekov said philosophically as he bent down to untie the knots at his ankles. "At this point, I don't see why that should bother me."

Klingon shower units were a little rougher on the skin than the ones used by the Federation, but they did the same job. A shower usually made the ensign feel better. However, he decided as he awkwardly pulled his ill-fitting pants back on with his manacled hands, this was a situation that it was simply impossible to feel better about.

"Your comrades took the news of your death bravely," the Klingon informed him. He was lying on his bunk trying to bend one of his damaged medals back into shape. "They weren't significantly demoralized."

"What's happening to them?" Chekov asked, tying the gold sash around his waist.

"Today they were interrogated again."

Chekov chewed his lower lip. There didn't seem any point in the Klingons telling the team he was dead... unless... "Are they going to be released?"

The Klingon shrugged. "I don't know. There's been no order for their execution yet. I suppose they'll stand trial for espionage first."

"And perhaps be extradited?"

"Perhaps. If they are executed, I will inform you so you may mourn them if you wish to."

Chekov supposed that was meant to be a generous offer, but he was not currently cultivating an appreciation for Klingon generosity. He looked at himself in the bathroom's reflecting glass. It amazed him that he still looked anything like the person he'd looked at in his own cabin's mirror a few days ago. He would have liked to have checked the condition of his back, but was very aware that the Klingon was watching him. "Will you conduct more interrogations tomorrow?"

"I'm a gunner, not an interrogator," his captor replied. "I am what you would call this ship's Chief Ordnance Officer. I was called in to examine the phaser cannon you were smuggling." The Klingon smiled at the look on the ensign's face. "You didn't know," he said, laughing and shaking his finger at Chekov. "Of the four captured, you were the only one who didn't know the true nature of your mission."

Chekov frowned. It was not pleasant to discover that on top of everything else, Star Fleet had managed to make a fool of him too. "Is that why I'm here?" he asked bitterly. "Because I didn't know anything valuable?"

"No. I had my pick of the prisoners." The Klingon polished his restored medal against his vest. "It was my reward for an outstanding service I rendered for this ship. You were spared an interrogation because you knew nothing. The first man broke quickly and told us everything. The others are only being questioned for form."

"Not that they'll be able to tell a difference," Chekov observed.

"No," the Klingon agreed.

Despite the dire straights his teammates were in, Chekov would have preferred to be with them. "Why me?" he asked plaintively. "There was a woman..."

"Bah!" The Klingon spat. "She was useless. No spirit. No courage. Besides there are no women permitted on this ship."

"I've seen Klingon ships with female crewmembers..."

"Different sorts of ships," the Klingon dismissed the objection. "Our ship is special. Our missions are primarily expeditionary. We are what I think you would call special forces -- marines. We have special training. Women are not allowed to have such training or to serve on this sort of ship."

"Why not?"

The Klingon made a face as if it displeased him to even think of women. "They are too violent, too prone to irrationality. And they're undisciplined, too prone to argue. You can train a woman to do anything but not to argue... No, I had my pick and you were the one I wanted."

"Why?" Chekov demanded, determined to have an answer of some sort.

"Because you had the most spirit. Because you were the smallest," the Klingon listed, then smiled. "And because you were the most beautiful."

"The smallest?" Chekov repeated, ignoring the other input. "You mean, you needed someone small to bully?"

"No." The Klingon put his medals aside as rose. "Among Klingons, the smallest soldiers always have the most courage. They would not be able to become warriors otherwise."

Chekov stepped out of the bathroom doorway as the Klingon approached him, instinctively giving himself more room to maneuver... but maneuver to where?

"I am very pleased with my choice, Human." The Klingon's voice became husky as he drew near. "You display much spirit and passion. And the sight of your body..."

Chekov backed into a wall with a thud.

"...is very pleasing to me." The Klingon casually trapped him there, placing a huge hand next to each of the ensign's shoulders. "You can't know how hard I worked for you, my prize, but now you will know the depths of my..."

Chekov slammed his manacled fists as hard as he could into the giant's midsection. When the Klingon doubled over, he aimed a similar blow at the back of his captor's head. His aim was faulty and he ended up striking the Klingon's back instead. The ensign raised his hands to try again, but suddenly his feet came out from under him. He abruptly found himself on his back with the Klingon lying on top of him.

"Perhaps I chose one with too much spirit," his captor said ruefully, as he pinned Chekov's wrists above his head.

"Let me go! Let me go!" the ensign shouted, thrashing wildly.

"Quiet!" the Klingon admonished, shifting his weight so there was even less leeway for resistance. "Calm yourself. I do not mean to harm you. I have given my word that I will not take you by force. I only mean to amuse myself with your body for a time..."

"Stop... Stop... Stop.." Chekov said from between clenched teeth as his captor's free hand wandered down to the ensign's hips.

"There's fear in your eyes, my prize," the Klingon scolded mildly. "That's unworthy of your nature."

The ensign gasped as his captor's hand slipped inside the waistband of his pants.

"Are you unaccustomed to man's touch?" the Klingon asked with a concern his hands apparently didn't share. "Is that why you're afraid? Have you never known a man's touch, a man's kiss? Is that it?"

The ensign twisted wildly.

"Speak!" his captor commanded, reaching lower.

"Yes! Yes!" Chekov admitted desperately.

"Well, that's easily remedied." The Klingon grinned as he removed his hand. He got to his feet, pulling the ensign along with him. "Go lie on my bed."

Chekov didn't move. "No," he replied shortly, hoping to keep his trembling out of his voice.

"That was an order, not a request," the Klingon said, then propelled him in the right direction with a swat on the backside. "Now, go."

Chekov turned slowly back around to face him. "As I have said, I will not follow any of you orders at any time. This is an unacceptable situation. I am a prisoner of war..."

The Klingon cut him off by stepping forward and grabbing an handful of the ensign's hair. "You are not a prisoner of war any longer," he snarled, jerking Chekov's head painfully backwards. "You are the spoils of war. Understand? You are mine and you will do as I wish. Tonight you will have a lesson. It can be a pleasant one or a painful one. Understand?"

The ensign made no reply.

"Now..." The Klingon spun him around to face the bunk. "I order you to go lie on my bed so I might teach you of a man's pleasure."

"I do not recognize your authority over me," Chekov began stubbornly. "It has no legal basis. Therefore I will not follow any orders..."

"By the Great Kahless' balls, you will drive me mad!" The Klingon swore as he seized the ensign by the hair and dragged him over to the compartment containing the u-bars, manacles and the l'tatchi hide strap. "The next time I am offered a prize I will choose a wild targ to pleasure myself with... I might as well have chosen a woman!" * * *

And so, the ensign began the next morning of his captivity much the way he had the previous one -- chained over the foot of the bunk with his back aching from a new set of stripes and the weight of the Klingon's feet.

"Aaaa!" Chekov couldn't help but wince as the Klingon roused him with his customary slap on the behind.

"So you still feel the l'tatchi's kiss, eh, Human?" the Klingon asked, bending to disconnect the u-bar from his ankles. "I should caress your backside with it again for keeping me up half the night with your moaning and groaning."

The ensign found he was so stiff that he couldn't move his legs at all for a moment after they'd been freed.

"I'm not excused from duty merely because I've taken a stubborn little Human who must have his foolishness beaten out of him twice a day," the Klingon lectured, picking up Chekov's wrists.

The ensign couldn't stop himself from crying out in agony as his captor drug him around on the bed so that he was now lying on his stomach length-wise on the bunk.

"This is the price of your obstinacy," the Klingon said unsympathetically as he u-barred the ensign's wrists to the head of the bed. "You were most foolish to choose pain over pleasure. Had I even taken you forcefully last night, you would not be half so sore this morning."

It was not a point Chekov cared to debate. He struggled painfully to roll over onto his side as his captor fetched something from the bathroom.

"Down." The giant's hand forced him back onto his stomach again.

The ensign shuddered the Klingon spread a double handful of cold, slimy salve across his shoulders. It hurt too much to even try to wriggle out from under his tormentor's hands. "Stop..."

"Perhaps I am in part at fault," the Klingon said, carefully massaging the ointment into each abrasion. "As beautiful as you are, I did not anticipate that you might be a virgin in the ways of men."

Chekov buried his face in his arms.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, my prize," the Klingon soothed, caressing the ensign's hind quarters as he reached under his waistband to apply the salve. "I'll soon teach you all you need to know -- how to service my needs, how to offer your body up for my pleasure..."

"Get your filthy hands off me, you fornicating Klingon bastard!" Chekov choked.

"I'll even teach you to swear properly, as I have promised." The Klingon leisurely concluded his ministrations. After he'd finished, he gave the seat of the ensign's pants a patronizing pat. "But today you will have a quiet day."

"Let me go," Chekov demanded, gradually feeling mobility return to his aching muscles.

The Klingon hissed a hypo into the ensign's neck -- the nutrient concentrate, presumably. He then turned and re-loaded the device.

"What's that?" Chekov asked, shying away.

"Something the chief interrogator gave me," the Klingon informed him, pushing him down and applying the hypo to the ensign's neck again. "He thought I might need something to keep you from mischief. This will make you sleep."

"Let... Me..." Chekov protested, but he was unconscious before the third word got past his lips.

* * *

"Listen to this passage, Human," the Klingon commanded gleefully. "Why came I hither but to that intent? Think you a little din can daunt mine ears? Have I not in my time heard the zh'fadk roar? Have I not heard the sea puff'd up with winds Rage like an angry targ chafed with sweat? Have I not heard great ordnance in the field, And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies? Have I not in a pitched battle heard Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets' clang? And do you tell me of a woman's tongue, That gives not half so great a blow to hear As will a fshita nut in a farmer's fire?"

The Klingon prodded him enthusiastically in the chest with his elbow. "Marvelous, is it not?"

"It's disgusting," Chekov replied, edging away as much as he was able to.

The Klingon had upon returning from his day's duties taken out an old reader and sat down beside the ensign on the bunk. He'd been torturing his captive for over an hour now by reading aloud a convoluted story about an abusive relationship between a warrior called Kio and a woman named Tharine.

"No, no," the Klingon said, paging forward impatiently. "It's quite amusing. Listen to this..."

It didn't help matters that the Klingon wasn't reading the story sequentially, but kept jumping back and forth between his favorite sections.

"Listen to what Kio says when Tharine's father claims he will never win Tharine's love," the Klingon instructed. "Why, that is nothing; for I tell you, father, I am as peremptory as she proud-minded; And where two raging fires meet together They do consume the thing that feed their fury: Though little fire grows great with little wind, Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all: So I to her and so she yields to me; For I am rough and woo not like a babe."

The Klingon nudged him again. "Most amusing," he said significantly. "Don't you find it so?"

"No," Chekov replied flatly. Sleeping all day had made him feel somewhat better -- no, it had made him feel less sore. He stuck to his earlier opinion that nothing short of escape was going to make him feel better about this situation. He rolled onto his side and pulled at the u-bar that still shackled him to the head of the bed. "Let me up from here. At least take these manacles off. You've kept me chained like this for three...."

"Quiet!" the Klingon thundered. "You're making me lose my place."

"I could really care less," Chekov informed him.

The Klingon frowned. "I mean to entertain you, Human... but if you dislike the story, perhaps I could think of other ways to while away the time..."

"No, read!" the ensign encouraged, jerking away from the giant hand that snaked towards him. "Read the whole damned book!"

The Klingon raised an eyebrow. "You're enjoying the story, then?"

"I love it," Chekov assured him. "It's the most riveting thing I've ever heard in my life."

"It is quite good," the Klingon said, paging forward to another favored section. "Although I know I read it badly. I once saw it played in full when we captured Galondro IV."

Galondro had been a Federation outpost.

The Klingon laughed at the memory. "It was such a clever entertainment, we allowed the players to live. Our captain is very fond of this story also. He believes it would make a good opera, but I think that would ruin the humor."

"Probably," Chekov agreed, trying to look interested.

The Klingon turned the reader over in his hand discontentedly. "This isn't even a copy of the full text. It summarizes many scenes -- which is well, for I find the parts about the younger sister Beeanch tiresome. However I wish I had a complete text with more explanations. I don't understand many of these words. It is often too metaphorical. Do you not know this tale? Can you not recite it from memory?"

Chekov blinked at him. "What reason could I possibly have for memorizing an obscure Klingon story?"

"It is not Klingon." His captor paged back to the frontispiece and showed him a picture of balding, owl-eyed man. "This is a Human story. It was written by the Human, William, whose warrior name is K'speare."

The picture did seem vaguely familiar. "Amazing that he should be able to appeal so well to Klingon tastes."

"We Klingons are not repelled by all things alien," the Klingon replied, reaching out and tapping the ensign's nose affectionately.

For once, Chekov wished there was a little more xenophobia in the galaxy. "Aren't you going to read more?"

"Hmm." The Klingon paged through. "There is a good scene at the end when Tharine yields to Kio. Do you wish to hear that?"

"Yes," Chekov said, trying not to sound facetious. "Please."

"Here," the Klingon said, finding his place. "Tharine says this to the other women to show her obedience to Kio: Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, And for thy maintenance commits his body To painful labour both by sea and land, To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe; And craves no other tribute at thy hands But love, fair looks and true obedience..."

The Klingon paused significantly and gave his captive a pointed look. The corners of Chekov's mouth tightened, but he didn't dare give up his charade of rapt attention.

"Too little payment for so great a debt," the Klingon quoted meaningfully. "Such duty as the subject oweth the emperor Even such a woman oweth to her husband; And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour, And not obedient to his honest will, What is she but a foul contending rebel, And a graceless traitor to her loving lord? I am ashamed that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace; Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway, When they are bound to serve, love and obey. Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth, Unapt to toil and trouble in the world, But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts? Come, come, you froward and unable worms! My mind hath been as big as one of yours, My heart as great, my reason haply more, To bandy word for word and frown for frown; But now I see our lances are but straws, Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare, That seeming to be most which we indeed least are. Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot, And place your hands below your husband's foot: In token of which duty, if he please, My hand is ready, may it do him ease."

The Klingon turned off his reader.

"Surely there's more," Chekov said quickly. "An afterword, perhaps? If not, wouldn't you like to read the beginning to me again?"

"The beginning is tiresome," the Klingon replied, putting the reader into a compartment under his bunk.

"Then the middle," Chekov suggested helpfully.

The Klingon frowned at him. "I read you the middle."

"I..I.. I wasn't listening closely."

"You should listen closely to everything I say to you," the Klingon admonished. "There's no point in my reading to you at all..."

"I wasn't listening closely at first," the ensign corrected hastily. "It took me a while to truly appreciate it."

"Hmm." The Klingon didn't look entirely convinced as he stretched out on the bunk beside the ensign. "What would you say was the moral of the story?"

"I don't think it had a moral," Chekov answered bluntly. "It was just a sexist, sado-masochistic fantasy. I mean, it's ridiculous to believe that someone would fall in love with someone else who treated them so cruelly."

The Klingon pondered this. "Is that why you feel Tharine yielded to Kio?"

"That seems to be what the story indicates -- very unrealistically," the ensign replied. Then sensing that he might be making his point at the price of ending the conversation he added, "You have a different interpretation?"

"Yes. Tharine's love for Kio grows because she sees that he has chosen her." The Klingon reached out and idly brushed Chekov's hair back from his eyes. "She realizes that he has deep feelings for her. He is not cruel, but only wishes to change her behavior for her own good."

"Interesting." The ensign slowly and carefully pulled away from his captor's fingers. "Are there specific passages that support this reading?"

"No more reading tonight." The Klingon reached across him to dim the lights.

"Wait! Wait!" Chekov cried out, panicking.

"What is it now?"

"You can't mean for me to sleep with you."

"You would prefer to sleep as you did before?"

"Yes," Chekov answered honestly.

The Klingon rolled his eyes and turned out the lights.

"But... but..." the ensign stammered, trying to come up with something inarguable, "this bunk is too small for us both to fit comfortably."

"That is why..." The Klingon rolled him over and pulled him in so that the ensign's back was pressed against his captor's chest. "...you'll sleep very close to me."

"Let me go!" Chekov tried to kick or twist himself free. "Get your damned hands off me!"

"Quiet!" the Klingon ordered, closing his arms around the ensign more tightly. "You must lie still. I have early watch again tomorrow and I must rest."

"No!" Chekov struggled defiantly. "I won't follow your damned orders. And I'll keep you awake all night if you don't let... me... go!"

The Klingon grabbed him by the hair. "So you want me to stay awake, eh?" he said, letting his other hand run down the front of the ensign's body. "You want me awake and thinking of more interesting things to do?"

"No! Let me go!" Chekov arched away frantically. "Let me go!"

"You know I love your spirit," the Klingon said, pulling him back in tightly. "Is that why you wriggle against me, my prize? To arouse my interest? To inflame my passion?"

His captor thrust his powerful hips against the ensign as if to clear any ambiguity created by this somewhat metaphorical language.

"If you don't cease this most provocative squirming," the Klingon whispered into his captive's ear, "you may tempt me into breaking my word of honor..."

Chekov abruptly stopped struggling. He swallowed hard. "It would be a very terrible thing for you to break your solemn word."

"Yes, my prize," the Klingon agreed, pointedly. "It would be a very terrible thing -- for both of us."

Chekov clenched his teeth. "All right, all right... Damn it. You win. I won't move, but don't..."

"Shhh." The Klingon put a thick finger over the ensign's lips. "It is good that you decide to obey in this. As the story says, 'Better once than never, for never too late.'"

"God," the ensign said bitterly, turning his face toward the hard mattress, "I really hate literature."

* * *

Chekov didn't feel waking up in the Klingon's arms rather than chained over the foot of the Klingon's bed was significant progress in the right direction.

"Listen to me," he said after enduring the daily ritual of being slathered with salve. "You must realize that you can't keep me here indefinitely. Sooner or later, I will have to re-join the others in the detention cells and be interrogated. I am..."

"...Not a prisoner of war," the Klingon finished, taking the hypo kit out of a wall compartment. "I have explained this to you."

"Realistically, we both know that isn't true," Chekov rebutted evenly. "You're being allowed to keep me in your quarters, but that doesn't change..."

"Shh," the Klingon commanded, pressing the hypo to his neck.

"...That doesn't change who I am and what I may or may not know," Chekov continued after receiving the shot. "Your Intelligence Division will eventually wish to question me..."

"Don't worry." The Klingon loosened the u-bar from the head of the bed. "If you're questioned, I will be allowed to personally supervise the proceedings. Sit up."

This response was less than comforting and sitting up was more difficult than it sounded.

"If..." The ensign had to pause momentarily while he shifted in an attempt to find a non-existent more comfortable position. "If the others are to stand trial for espionage, then it stands to reason that I am also charged of the same crime. I do not fully understand the Klingon judicial system, but it would be logical to assume..."

"It is very amusing," the Klingon interrupted him as he knelt to remove the shackles from the ensign's ankles. "The way you attempt to reason your way out the situation like a Vulcan. Is that it, my prize? Are you half-Vulcan?" He laughed as he grabbed Chekov's chin and turned the ensign's head from side to side. "You almost have the coloring for it, but I don't see your pointed ears. Are you a logic-spouting plant-eater? Is that why you like to pretend not to feel pain?"

To illustrate this point, the Klingon picked up one of the ensign's feet and bit his insole.

"Ow!" Chekov automatically struck out at his attacker's head with the other foot.

The Klingon deflected the kick, then used his grip on both legs to push the ensign backwards onto the bunk.

"See," he said, pinning Chekov's arms. "It is as Tharine says in the story, your strength is weakness, and your weakness is beyond compare... And yet you continue to fight against the odds. You have such spirit, my prize. You are truly a worthy conquest."

He pushed Chekov's head to one side then put his mouth to the ensign's neck. For a second, Chekov thought the Klingon meant to bite him on the throat like a vampire, but what he got was a softer... moister sensation.

"Stop it! Damn it!" The ensign definitely would have preferred being bitten on the neck to being kissed. "Get off me you filthy, disgusting, perverted Klingon bastard!"

"Nay," the Klingon quoted, chuckling as he rose, "look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret; I will be master of what is mine own."

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" the ensign shouted, coming to his feet and standing toe to toe with the Klingon.

"For now," the Klingon agreed jovially, giving the ensign's cheek a rough pat before he headed for the door. "but remember, 'where two raging fires meet together, they do consume the thing that feeds their fury'. And so I to you and you will yield to me. For I, like Kio in the story, am rough and woo not like a babe."

"Degenerate Klingon bastard!" Chekov swore as the door sealed shut behind his captor. "If I ever find out who this lunatic K'speare is, I'm going to kill him."

* * *

Chekov spent the day looking for the surveillance cameras and coming up with a plan. It wasn't a good plan. It relied heavily on his understanding of Klingon psychology -- which was admittedly incomplete -- and his acting skills -- which had never been particularly notable. It was, however, a much faster solution than his backup plan.

* * *

"Do you think I'm a fool?" the Klingon shouted as he entered. "Are you intent on making me look an idiot in the eyes of my captain and my crewmates?"

Chekov, who had seated himself on the edge of the bunk to wait for his captor's return, took in a deep breath, folded his manacled hands in his lap and lowered his eyes to the floor.

"Come with me!" The Klingon jerked him up by the hair and drug him to the bathroom door. His captor took a cup out and filled it with water from the sink. "Drink!" he commanded, pulling the ensign's head back.

Chekov obeyed as much as it was possible to without choking or drowning.

"You meant to die, didn't you, Human?" the Klingon, accused, refilling the cup. "You would have said nothing and let yourself die of dehydration, wouldn't you?"

Since the Klingon was forcing another cup of water down his throat, it was impossible to answer.

"I met the chief interrogator in the corridor today," the Klingon informed him angrily, re-filling the cup. "'Are you giving your Human water?' he asked. 'No,' I said, 'he hasn't asked for any.' 'He's trying to escape you, then,' he tells me. 'The shots alleviate their need for food, but don't completely replace the water their bodies need. After a few more days, he'll begin to die.'"

'Well,' Chekov thought, choking down the contents of another cup that weren't escaping down the sides of his mouth, 'so much for the back-up plan.'

"Is this true, Human?" the Klingon demanded, shaking him. "You knew this, didn't you? You were already beginning to suffer with thirst, but you said nothing. You intended to deceive me and bring about your own death by way of my ignorance, didn't you?"

The ensign would have answered, but was too busy coughing up water that had gone down the wrong way.

The Klingon shook him again. "Answer me!"

"Yes, sir," Chekov managed at last. "That was my intent."

"Do you realize what a fool I would have looked -- to let the captive awarded me for my cunning die from my stupidity?"

"Yes, sir." Chekov lowered his eyes to the tops of the Klingon's boots. "I apologize for my disrespect."

"As well you should. I ought to beat..." The Klingon suddenly ground to a halt mid-tirade. "What did you say? Did you call me sir?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why?"

Chekov shrugged, keeping his eyes on the deck. "Why shouldn't I, sir? It's obvious that you are my superior."

The Klingon lifted the ensign's chin. "And when did this change of heart take place?" he asked suspiciously.

"I haven't changed, sir," the ensign replied deferentially. "I've simply decided it would be safer to stop defying you."

"Safer?"

"Yes, sir." Chekov tried his best to look completely dispirited. "I'm very afraid of you."

"Afraid of me?" the Klingon repeated dubiously.

"Yes, sir. I'm terrified of being beaten, or shouted at, or touched." The ensign took advantage of the chance to demonstrate the last by lifting his chin from the Klingon's hand.

"These things make you afraid..." The Klingon folded his arms. "...Not angry?"

"I only seemed angry because I was so afraid."

"But now you've resigned yourself to your situation and have decided to cooperate in hopes that I might treat you more gently?"

"Yes, sir." The ensign let his head hang humbly.

The Klingon fell silent. The ensign felt his cheeks growing warm as he withstood his captor's disapproving stare. Chekov knew it was a pathetically transparent ruse, but he was determined to play it through.

"Does this mean you will obey my orders?" the Klingon asked after a few moments.

Now this was the point where things could get tricky... "Well, I..."

The Klingon pointed at the bunk. "Go to my bed."

Chekov hesitated. "I..."

His captor jerked his head back. "Do you want to be beaten, Human? I thought you said you were afraid of that."

It was very difficult to remember to not try to jerk away. "I am, however..."

"Then go!" The Klingon spun him around to face the bunk. "Do as I say. Now!"

The ensign took in a deep breath as did as he was ordered, moving very slowly. He'd anticipated that he was going to have to do something to prove his new-found passivity. He hadn't cared to go into much detail with himself about what that "something" might end up being, though. He sat down cross-legged on the bunk with his back against the wall and let his head fall to his chest again. At least it wouldn't be so hard to fake being terrified...

"So," the Klingon said, coming near the bed and putting away his weapons -- thus spoiling Chekov's auxiliary Plan C for the moment. "You are frightened of me?"

"Yes, sir," the ensign replied meekly.

"You are a coward, then? A cowardly worm who only fights because he cannot run any further?"

Chekov had to clear his throat before he could answer in a convincing tone, "Yes, sir."

"And now..." The Klingon sat down beside the ensign's knees. "..when you decide that fighting is too hazardous, you yield. Is that it, Human? Are ready to put your hand under my boot?"

The ensign puzzled over this for a second before he moved to comply.

"No, no." The Klingon stopped him. "I was speaking metaphorically. In the story, Tharine puts her hand beneath Kio's boot to signify her surrender."

"Oh." Chekov put his hands back into his lap and wished he'd fallen into the hands of an illiterate.

"In the story..." His captor lifted the ensign's chin up with a finger. "...Kio requires Tharine to give him a kiss to show her obedience."

Chekov caught himself on the verge of glaring at the Klingon. He lowered his eyes quickly.

"And now I require the same of you." The Klingon leaned toward him. "Kiss me as token of your capitulation."

The ensign made no move to comply.

"This is my order," his captor said firmly. "You know the consequences of defiance."

The ensign squeezed his eyes closed as he lifted his face up and leaned forward. He tried to think of something -- anything -- else as the Klingon's mouth pressed against him, but it was impossible. He hadn't been kissed on the lips by someone with a beard since he was a child.

"No! No!" The Klingon took him by the shoulders and shook him. "You still dare to defy me?"

Chekov wiped his mouth off. "What?"

"You disobey my order!" the Klingon raged. "I order you to kiss me, but instead you simply let me kiss you."

'Oh for the love of...' Chekov took a deep breath. Pretend it's a woman, he advised himself as he leaned forward again -- a large, hairy woman who smells like a Klingon, has a mouth full of pointed teeth and an extreme case of bad breath.

The Klingon seemed more pleased with the ensign's efforts this time. To the ensign's dismay, his captor pulled him close and returned his kiss a good deal more deeply than was entirely pleasant.

"You have deceived me," the Klingon accused as he finally pulled away. "You have no spirit at all, do you?"

"No, none." Chekov was glad that his captor had discovered the dehydration plan, because now the ensign really wanted to rinse his mouth out.

"You have no courage, no character," the Klingon railed. "You are as passionless as a Vulcan, aren't you?"

"I'm afraid so," the ensign confirmed readily.

"Oh, how you have deceived me!" the Klingon exclaimed, seizing him again by the shoulders. "You lying little worm! Give me your lips again!"

In the midst of being grabbed and enthusiastically kissed for the third time, Chekov got the distinct impression that the Klingon was on to him.

"Deceitful Federation dog!" the Klingon shouted. "Get out of my bed! Out! Out! Now!"

This request was more promising. After his initial few seconds of surprize wore off, the ensign quickly obeyed.

"To imagine that I could have ever thought you worthy of my notice!" the Klingon raged, stripping off his vest.

"What are you doing?" Chekov asked, warily backing away.

"I'm going to have you taken back to the detention cells to rejoin your spineless colleagues," the Klingon informed him, taking off his heavy belt.

There could certainly be no more welcome news than that... However... "Then why are you undressing?"

"Surely you don't believe I will let you return still a virgin." The Klingon methodically unfastened his shirt. "I won't be laughed at, Human."

Chekov continued to back away. He got the sense that the Klingon wasn't entirely serious. There was something a little too exaggerated in his manner. The problem was, the ensign didn't know how serious the Klingon had to be in order to carry out his threat. "You gave your word..."

"A word given to a person of no honor is not binding." The Klingon tossed his shirt aside. "Come here. There is no place for you to run."

That much was undeniably true. So, it was coming down to unarmed combat again. As the ensign lowered his head and trudged forward he knew he had neither size, speed, agility, nor skill on his side. His only advantage lay in surprize. This time, Chekov thought, covertly sighting vulnerable points on the Klingon's torso, no mistakes.

"Yes. Crawl to me like the worthless slave you are," the Klingon sneered. "I'll teach you to..."

Knowing he might not get more than one shot, Chekov made it a good one. He slammed his wrists into the Klingon's throat. This would have immobilized his captor -- had it made contact.

The Klingon was ready for him. He ducked and kicked the ensign's legs out from under him. He was able to use the momentum of Chekov's blow to trip him, causing the ensign to land virtually in his captor's arms.

"If I was half as stupid as you believe me," the Klingon said, u-barring the struggling ensign's wrists to the head of the bed, "my own mother would have strangled me while I was still an infant then killed herself for the shame of having birthed such an idiot."

"A very.. very.. very.. meritorious idea," the ensign replied, punctuating each 'very' with a kick.

"What has happened to the meek little coward who was here a moment ago?" the Klingon asked, grabbing his ankles.

"Don't patronize me by pretending that you were taken in for a moment," the ensign blazed back, attempting to jerk free.

"Two escape attempts in one day." The Klingon shook his head disapprovingly, unaffected by the ensign's continuing struggles. "I know it is my responsibility to beat you and thus discourage such foolishness, but I find myself softened by the memory of the sweet kisses you gave me..."

"Stop," the ensign demanded furiously. "Just stop this. I refuse to go along with this charade any longer. Your behavior is inconsistent with everything I know about Klingon culture..."

The Klingon seemed surprized by this. "Perhaps you know little of Klingons."

"Perhaps this is some sort of psychological torture designed to make me reveal..."

"You're not going to be interrogated," the Klingon cut him off impatiently. "As I have explained, you are no longer a prisoner of war."

"Then if things are as they appear and you have become for some reason..." Chekov could barely bring himself to say it. "...enamored of me, then let me be perfectly honest with you. I do not return your feelings. I am not attracted to you in any way. I never will be. It is utterly impossible that I will ever have any feelings for you other than hatred and revulsion."

The Klingon received this speech with silence. His face became unreadable. "Is this the truth?" he asked after a few moments.

"Yes," Chekov replied adamantly.

"Hmm." The Klingon studied the ensign silently for a few more moments. With no further comment, he rose, lifting the ensign out of his way then dumping him back onto the bunk.

Chekov began to worry about the impact the truth was having on his captor when the Klingon walked over and drew something out of the compartment the ensign knew from hard experience contained instruments of torture. "What are you doing?"

The Klingon walked back to the bunk with something in his hand. "I'm going to test you," he explained, pulling the ensign's head up and forcing something into his mouth. It was a gag. "It is my estimation that you are a person who is truthful by nature," he continued, tying the cloth in place behind the ensign's head. "However you have amply demonstrated that you will lie to me if you believe it will help you achieve something you wish."

The padded portion of the gag filled the ensign's mouth, making it impossible to speak around.

"Also, you are inexperienced." The Klingon pulled the ensign so that he was lying flat on his back on the bunk. "Perhaps only your inexperience speaks, not your heart."

Chekov's heart began to thud as the Klingon reached over and dimmed the lights. The ensign tried to roll away, but the Klingon held him in place with a knee.

"I do not wish to hear you speak further." Chekov protested as audibly as he was able to as the Klingon undid the sash from the ensign's waist. "Your speech I cannot trust. I wish to find what truth your body will reveal."

The ensign tried to twist away from the Klingon's hands.

"Why do you resist, Human?" his captor asked, slamming him back into place. "If you speak the truth and you have only disgust in your heart for me, why do you shrink from my touch? Are you afraid your body will contradict your lie?"

Chekov continued to struggle, but after a moment it occurred to him that the Klingon might have a point. If it was going to take this to prove to his captor once and for all that his feelings were not returned, then perhaps it was worth it in the long run. The ensign bit down on the gag and forced himself to lie still as the Klingon's hands made their inexorable way down.

'Think of it as a medical examination,' he told himself as the Klingon's fingers made contact.

The Klingon's caresses were surprisingly gentle and as far away from a medical examination as possible.

'I just have to think of something else.' The ensign took in a deep breaths through his nose as his captor continued his leisurely explorations. 'Wait. Why imagine anything else? This is as revolting a situation as is possible.'

The Klingon pulled the garment aside and lowered his lips to the task.

'He'll stop. He'll stop,' the ensign assured himself, squeezing his eyes closed. 'In just a moment, he'll give up and stop.'

But his captor didn't stop. Despite the lack of participation, he continued with some enthusiasm.

'Just a few more minutes,' the ensign promised himself feeling sweat to begin bead on his forehead. 'And it will be over.'

But it wasn't over. The ensign had to admit that the Klingon was exceptionally skilled at being a pervert. In the dark, it was to hard to tell it wasn't a woman...

Chekov realized to his horror that he was beginning to respond. He tried to jerk away, but the Klingon had him pinned in a way that made any resistance on his part indistinguishable from active cooperation.

The ensign tried to bring his body back under his mental control, but it was too late.

'Think of who's doing this!' he commanded himself.

That didn't work either. The hideousness of the situation made it all the more perversely erotic.

'Oh, God, I'm lost,' the ensign thought, utter despair washing over him. 'I'm lost. He has me now. He's tricked me and he has me now. He'll be able to do anything he wishes. I'll never escape. I've lost. I'm lost.'

The idea of being raped by a Klingon had been almost unimaginably horrible, but to be seduced by a Klingon like a stupid virgin in a French farce... Tears of self-disgust formed in the ensign's eyes. He didn't see any reason to stop them.

It took several moments for the Klingon to notice a diminishment. He pulled himself up to the ensign's side.

"Don't weep, my prize," he comforted. "These first lessons will be the hardest for you, but it is best to know the truth, is it not?"

Chekov rolled away from him.

The Klingon didn't force him back. "You know now that I see your true nature. I knew you for what you were from the first moment I saw you. Although you are an alien, I know you better than you know yourself." The Klingon reached out and tenderly teased a curl at the base of the ensign's neck. "I see your passion and let you turn from me now, but it is only because I know it will be a short time until you come to me of your own accord."

Chekov closed his eyes and prayed desperately for his captor to be mistaken. * * *

The ensign was jolted awake a few hours later by something he'd never heard before -- a red alert signal inside a Klingon battlecruiser.

"By Kahless' teeth!" the Klingon swore irritably as he quickly rose and dressed. "All the Federation conspires to rob me of my sleep."

"Unchain me," Chekov requested, struggling up to sitting.

"No." The Klingon pulled on his boots and armed himself. "You'll be safer as you are. Lashed down, there's less chance you'll be thrown against a bulkhead if we go into battle."

The ensign awkwardly pulled his clothes up. "Do you think we're heading into a confrontation with a Federation vessel?"

"What else?" The Klingon picked up the gold sash and tossed it to him. "Enjoy your safe warm bed, my prize, while I go commit my body to painful labors for your protection," he said, mangling a quote from his favorite story as he headed for the door. "I'll expect a reward for my efforts on my return."

"Klingon bastard," Chekov swore at the closed door. He then immediately worried that the curse didn't have as much venom as it had the day before. * * *

The battle -- if that's what it had been, was short and violent. Other than the fact that it didn't disintegrate around him, Chekov couldn't tell how extensive the damage to the Klingon ship was. It was an odd, helpless feeling to be trapped inside the bowels of an alien ship in the middle of a battle. There were no viewscreens to see what was going on. He couldn't understand the orders barked over the intercom system. It was like being blind and almost deaf.

The ensign could tell from the sound of the engines that they were moving away at a high rate of speed. Perhaps the Klingons had lost and were making a run for it...

More than an hour passed with no further impacts. The ensign had almost drifted off to sleep again when three Klingons burst in.

"Kahrag is dead," one of the Klingons, an officer from the looks of his uniform, informed him in Standard as the other two unlocked the u-bar. "You will be returned to the detention cells until your fate is decided."

"What?" The ensign was too surprised to resist as the guards dragged him forward.

"The gunner is dead and your fate is uncertain," the officer repeated bluntly. A leer crept into his expression as he reached out and toyed with the gold sash around the ensign's waist. "Perhaps the captain will allow us to throw lots for you."

Chekov shook his head uncomprehendingly. He hadn't even known his captor's name.

"Take him," the officer commanded, jerking his thumb towards the corridor.

* * *

Despite everything, the ensign was asleep when he was rescued a few hours later. The badly damaged bird of prey's cloak and shields failed. The Federation ship it had meant to ambush had taken the advantage. When they were at last close enough, they'd beamed aboard all the Humans their sensors could locate.

Chekov woke to find himself on a transporter pad with three people who were convinced he was dead. The Star Fleet Intelligence officers in charge hadn't allowed them very much time to discuss matters. The ensign was kept separate from the others as they were hustled off to Medical.

After the physical exam, he'd been placed alone in this room. It was a proper interrogation room.

The ensign laid his head down on the table in front of him. He sleepily wondered how much different reality would be when he woke up next time.

"Don't go to sleep on us, Ensign." Two people in Star Fleet uniform entered -- a man and a woman.

Chekov quickly straightened. "Sorry, sir."

The woman smiled as they took seats opposite him. "Quite understandable after what you've been through."

Chekov stopped staring at the Intelligence officers when he realized he was doing so because some part of his brain was surprized they weren't Klingons.

"All right, let's get straight to it, Ensign," the woman said, pulling out a padd. "Why were you being held separately from the others taken prisoner?"

"Well," Chekov began uncomfortably. "I was being kept at a different location... under other circumstances."

"That's what Commander Clark said, Ensign," the man pointed out unkindly. "And she asked why."

Chekov cleared his throat. Somehow during his whole captivity, he'd never imagined what it was going to sound like to make a report on it afterwards. "I was being kept separately... by one of the Klingon officers."

"Why?" the man demanded.

"Were you being interrogated?" the woman asked.

"No," Chekov replied, answering the easier question.

"The other prisoners were informed you were dead."

"Yes," the ensign confirmed.

"Why?"

This was getting hard again. "Because... the Klingon officer... wished to keep me."

Chekov bit his lip and looked down at the table top as the Intelligence officers considered this. He could feel his face growing red.

"Do you have the results of his physical?" the woman asked the man quietly.

"Yes, Commander."

"Is there evidence of assault?"

The man consulted the padd in front of him. "He seems to have been beaten several..."

"Sexual assault," the woman specified quickly.

"Oh." Chekov could feel rather than see the man look up at him before going back to his notes. "No, Commander. No evidence."

"Ensign.." She turned back to him. "Were you sexually assaulted by this Klingon officer?"

Chekov kept his eyes on the table. "I.. I... I'm not sure what... what you..." The ensign made himself stop and collect himself. "I'm not certain what constitutes a sexual assault, Commander."

"Were you forced to participate in acts of a sexual nature against your will?"

"Yes..." Chekov paused then made himself repeat the answer more certainly. "Yes."

"Were the beatings part of this?" the man asked -- somewhat unnecessarily in the ensign's opinion.

"No." Chekov lifted his chin. "That was because I resisted."

"Good for you." The woman reached out and patted his hand. "Do you have any idea why you were singled out for this treatment?"

Chekov felt his eyes sink guiltily back down to the tabletop. "No."

"And during this entire time, you weren't questioned about your identity or the nature of your mission at any time?"

"No."

"Why?"

Chekov wished that he could say he didn't know the answer to this question. "The Klingon officer already knew who I was," he replied, knowing that this was the sort of thing that interested Intelligence Officers. He didn't want them to be interested in him. "He told me that the first prisoner interrogated broke under questioning."

"He was an interrogator?" the man speculated.

"No, he was a gunner. The chief ordnance officer." It was unpleasant to hear himself echo the Klingon's words. Chekov eyed the man narrowly. "He said he was called in to look at a phaser cannon."

"Did he say anything else about this supposed 'phaser cannon'?" the woman asked quickly.

"No."

"Did the Klingon say anything that would tend to confirm his claim that one of the prisoners had broken under interrogation?"

Chekov blinked as he thought back. It was strange but somehow comforting to look on his captivity in this detached, sterile way. "He knew my rank. He knew I was a Federation officer -- a junior officer. He said that I was the only one of the team who didn't know the true nature of our mission."

The Intelligence Officers exchanged glances.

"Very well, then, Ensign." The woman pushed the padd towards him. "I know this may be painful for you, but you're going to have to give us a detailed report on everything that happened to you in the past five days."

"It's best that you do it now while it's fresh in your mind," the man added.

"We want to know everything the Klingon officer said to you," the woman ordered. "Do you understand me, Ensign? Write down everything -not just what you consider significant."

Chekov pulled the padd towards him reluctantly. "Yes, Commander."

"This whole affair is classified," the man assured him. "None of what you tell us will go into your permanent record."

"Most of this is probably never going to leave this room," the woman said, rising. "But we want every detail, Ensign. Understand?"

Chekov squared his shoulders. "Yes, Commander."

"Good." As the man followed her out, the ensign could hear her say, "See that we have a psychologist with level five security clearance available for..."

The door closed leaving the ensign alone in an empty room with an empty page in front of him. He picked up the stylus dutifully, then stopped.

'It's over,' he told himself firmly. 'It's over. He's dead. I escaped."

Chekov turned back to the stubbornly blank page. The question still remained -- How did one even begin to tell such a strange, dark, and disturbing tale?

"Once, long ago," he could hear the Klingon saying inside his memory, "there was a bold warrior named Kio, who decided to claim for himself a mate...."

* * *

The End