Chekov had finally been able to move after a good hour of just laying on the ground. He'd dragged himself over to the corner of the room nearest the window and leaned up against the wall, nursing his throbbing legs. Strangely, he found that it alleviated the pain to have his left leg bent and his right out, ramrod straight, so he rested his arm on his knee and tried to get some sleep.
He found sleep was evading him, however, so he contented himself with looking out the small window, imagining the Enterprise out there somewhere. Chekov held to the firm belief that Captain Kirk was coming for him, but he had no idea when or if it would be too late by the time he got here. So it would be left to Chekov to escape and get back to them on his own.
Problem was, he had no idea how he was supposed to do it.
Finally, as the night wore on and light from Geshaash's two moons leaked in the window, Chekov laid his head against the wall, shivering slightly at the cold in his shirtless condition, and fell into a trancelike, half-asleep state.
Moloz came back for him just as the sun was starting to show itself. Chekov had been watching it and wondering whether they could see this star from Earth when the door creakily slid open and Moloz stood there, arms crossed, a steely look in his eyes.
Moloz looked Chekov over. He nodded approvingly, adjusting the chains slung over his shoulder. The sight of them grated on Chekov's already strained nerves, but he swallowed that panic and held his head high, looking Moloz in the eye and daring him to underestimate him.
Moloz met the gaze, unintimidated. "Those bruises are developing nicely," he commented, gesturing to Chekov's black-and-blue torso. He approached, and Chekov was instantly on high alert. "Just need one more finishing touch."
This time, Chekov was prepared, but he knew that fighting back would only make Moloz beat him worse. So, he took the blow to his gut without a struggle. Nevertheless, it still caused him to double over in pain, groaning. Coughing, he straightened out, and reestablished his steady glare at Moloz. You won't beat me, he thought, hoping Orions could secretly read minds. You won't break me.
"That should do," Moloz commented, still apparently unimpressed. He took the chains off his shoulder and shackled Chekov's wrists. Leading him out of the cell, they went back the same way they'd come for a time before twisting down a corridor. Judging by the way the doors slid open when they passed, Chekov assumed that the Orion traders slept in this same facility as their prisoners – though with significantly better living conditions, he noted – and they also had escape-proof hallways here. It figured. He was glad he hadn't attempted anything last night – even if he'd been in any condition to do so. Though he seemed fine today, after that last beating, he'd barely been able to move in the first place.
Chekov was interrupted by the sound of a feminine scream coming from a nearby Orion's quarters. They passed by, and Moloz paused before the door, watching with a sickening smile on his face. Chekov, on the other hand, watched the events unfolding inside with horror.
What appeared to be a female member of a species he'd had yet to encounter scrambled along the floor as an Orion slave trader chased after her, a knife in his hand.
Pleading with him in her own language, the woman curled up against the wall, holding her hands up in surrender. Chekov watched as the Orion's knife descended toward her uncovered head and the woman screamed.
Instead of skewering her, however, the knife stabbed into the wall next to her. The Orion leaned down and started hissing at her angrily. Chekov couldn't make out his words, but he was willing to bet they weren't those of a pleased master.
Moloz, meanwhile, was smiling to himself. Giving Chekov's chains a tug, they began moving down the hallway again.
"I remember the first time I refused to do what my master required of me," he said, the smile on his face not adding up to the bitterness in his tone. "I was the concubine of one of the Syndicate's leaders. He wasn't quite so kind as Kain back there. But he was also more skilled with a knife, so that might have something to do with it."
He looked back at Chekov, as if to check that he was still listening. Seeing nothing but a look of disgust, he turned straight back ahead. "Slashed me until I nearly bled out. Slashed, mind you. Not stabbed. If we want our slaves to learn, we never stab them. That's almost certain death. I'd recommend doing as you're told when you get where you're going, human. Slashing is rather uncomfortable."
Chekov followed behind him in silence, trying to understand the man about to doom him to the same fate he had once suffered.
"Vy are you doing zis?" he demanded angrily. Moloz turned to survey him, and for a moment, Chekov entertained the fear of another beating, but decided that at this point, he really didn't care. Besides, Moloz looked merely intrigued, not murderous.
"You're putting eweryone you sell through ze exact same thing you vent through!" Chekov continued. "How does zat make sense? Vat have ve ewer done to you? Ve didn't do zat to you, ze Syndicate did! Your energy vould be better spent in taking zem out, not helping zem in zeir vork!"
Moloz suddenly lunged at him, dragging his wrists down so he couldn't move, and getting right up in his face.
"I do it so you all can learn the same painful lesson I did," Moloz growled. "Loyalty? Friendship? Family?" He scoffed. "It's all a lie." Releasing his grip just slightly so Chekov could rise, he stepped off to the side and took a deep, shuddering breath. "You know, my father was also a high-ranking Orion official. Second-in-command only to our leader, actually. Funny how I expected him to send the cavalry in after me."
He trailed off, and Chekov thought he was beginning to understand the man who'd captured him a bit more. He waited for Moloz's next statement.
"When I was sold to his superior," Moloz growled out, "I expected he would stage some sort of coup to get me out. I certainly didn't think he'd let his – his friend do those things to me. But he would walk past my rooms, my prison, every day and do nothing. My mother, my brothers and sister, they all visited him at his place of work, where I was kept, and did the exact same thing. I stood by the door and pleaded with them, called them by name, begged them to help me. But did any of them come for me? No."
Moloz stopped abruptly, and hung his head, shuddering. Chekov was certain he was cursing himself for having revealed that much to a slave, of all people. When Moloz did speak again, his voice had an even harder edge to it.
"I learned in that place that you can rely on no one," he said. "Family ties mean nothing. They will treat you as though you are important to them and then turn their back as soon as you need them to help you."
Chekov couldn't resist asking. "How did you escape?"
Moloz glared at him. "I didn't," he said. "My owner died. After I'd started complying with his wishes, he grew fond of me and left everything to me. Using his money, I was able to buy my way into the Syndicate. Before I left, my parents came to me, begging my forgiveness. Claiming it broke their hearts to see me in such a place and not being able to do anything about it. When all the while they could have. They pleaded with me to come home. I spit in my father's face and walked out. I haven't seen them since."
There was a charged silence. Chekov shook his head as Moloz looked at some point on the wall behind his head.
"You're wrong," Chekov said. "Vat your father did vas despicable, but zere are better people zan him out zere. Loyalty is not a lie. Family doesn't have to be who you're born vith. You can choose it. It's not too late."
Moloz sneered. "And what will I do?" he demanded. "Leave the Syndicate? Even if I weren't hunted down and killed, who would take me? Your Starfleet? No, human. The rest of my life will be spent teaching poor, idealistic souls like yourself the same thing I've had to cope with. How much should I bet that you've been counting on your friends to come back for you? Most do. And no one ever does. There hasn't been a prison break attempt among my cargo in the entire time I've been in the business. You are truly on your own, human."
Moloz started walking again, jerking Chekov along. And it was then that Chekov did something either very defiant, very stupid, or both.
"My name," he growled, "is not 'human.'"
Using every ounce of strength he had left, he yanked the chain out of Moloz's grip and grabbed it up in his own hands. Moloz whirled, furious, but Chekov was determined he would show absolutely none of the fear he was feeling before his captor.
"It's Pavel Chekov, and I von't be led like a dog to ze auction block!" he shouted. "You can tell my crew zat ven zey prove ewerything you've been saying wrong."
Moloz looked as though he might actually snap. He looked as though he might actually finish what he'd started when he'd cut off Chekov's airway four days ago. But, after a few moments of that murderous glare, his face was once again a mask of calm.
Turning around and waving Chekov forward, he called over his shoulder, "Have it your way, human. It's not as if you'll get much farther if you try to bolt, anyway."
As they reached the end of the long corridor, the wall in front of them opened up and Chekov was blinded by the light filtering in. The heat of the day suddenly filtered in around him, stuffy and stifling, and he realized that after a few hours, he was going to burn in that heat. While he didn't welcome the uncomfortable side effects of that, it was the other problem it posed that gave him pause.
If they saw him holding up well under the sweltering sun's barrage, he'd be sold faster than if they thought him weak. He would be gone for sure before the Enterprise got there.
Moloz delivered him to his spot in line behind the auction block. Chekov couldn't help but be reminded of Ancient Rome's colosseum. The amphitheater was a round, pillared structure, and everything down to sand beneath his feet was nearly identical.
At a nod from Moloz, one of the guards moved to stand behind him, his phaser rifle aimed solidly at his back. Chekov stood staring stoically ahead. Feeling the defiance a bit more, he commented, "I hope ze safety is on zat thing."
Moloz gave him an incredulous look. "You actually believe you're getting out of this, don't you, human?" he asked.
Chekov shrugged. "I've told you before. You're wrong. Family ties are ze ones you choose, not ze ones you're born vith. And my crew is about to prove it."
Moloz let out a low, derisive laugh. "You think they'll come in here, all guns blazing? There's no way the Federation will give up Raycek, a highly wanted criminal, to get back one insignificant Starfleet navigator. If Raycek is even still alive by now. Just wait. They won't even have the nerve to come after you without negotiation material."
He checked Chekov's shackles casually. "Actually, if you want my honesty, I don't even care about Raycek. That was just a decoy. Being the captain of his ship now suits me just fine. So as far as I'm concerned, he can rot. Just like you will."
Then Moloz moved off to stand in the crowd, leaving Chekov alone with that thought.
Chekov was one of the last slaves to arrive, so he was also towards the end of the auction. As the line dwindled down, so did the sun's light, and he felt the welcome relief of the night's chill. Fortunately, tonight was not so cold as the last one. Every once in a while, a breeze would flow across his bare chest, but it was more of a tickle than anything else. He was pretty sure he heard the guard behind him doze off a few times, but knew that if he attempted escape, at least five others would blow his brains out before he made it two steps.
The auction was disturbing, to say the least. Many of the slaves were not so resigned to their fate – or sure of their rescue – as he was, and were more reluctant to get up on the block. He watched one rather large Nausicaan put up an admirable fight until he was tackled to the ground by six of the guards. None of the other slaves dared to run while they were distracted, however. As far as Chekov could see, there was only one exit to the arena, and there were more guards on the way to that.
He swallowed his disquiet as the Nausicaan was hauled up to the platform. Beyond cursing at the Orions in his language, Chekov could see the hidden fear in his eyes, and wondered if a Nausicaan pirate couldn't hide his terror, how was Chekov supposed to hide his own?
There was finally only one more slave in front of him. It was a young Orion woman, and Chekov had, for once in his life, been too distracted to notice her. He'd been busy either watching the auction or scanning the area for any signs of the Enterprise crew infiltrating it, about ready to not only get him back, but shut down this entire organization. Heck, maybe they'd move on to the whole Orion Syndicate in a race for vengeance.
He would strongly recommend the idea to Captain Kirk once he got back on the ship.
They came for the Orion girl, and she, too, did not go without a fight. The first of the traders to touch her received a slap across the face. Chekov winced for the man. Though he didn't necessarily feel any love for the traders, he'd been slapped by an Orion woman before. They packed a punch.
The other two with him grabbed her by the arms, overpowering her easily. She kicked at their shins and screamed at the top of her lungs, but to no avail. By the time they reached the block, the traders were practically carrying her, and her chains had to be affixed to bolts at the edge of the platform to keep her secure.
She began cursing at the traders in the Orion tongue. Chekov made a mental note to look some of these words he was hearing up later. Though he would forever favor Russian, knowing profanity in other languages came in useful around some people – Mr. Scott, for instance, who couldn't be bothered to learn anything other than Federation Standard. Knowing that contemplating the future that was slowly drawing further and further away, Chekov turned his attention back to the struggling girl on the platform.
He should have noticed by the way she carried herself that she was some kind of nobility. It was almost universal to every species that those of a higher class had a certain air about them. Even on Earth, where poverty was all but obsolete, people who had descended from wealthier families acted just slightly snobbier than others – well, most of them. This girl gave off the vibe that the rare few others did: not uppity, but still the feeling that she'd had confidence pounded into her head her entire life and didn't know any different.
Suddenly she started screaming in Standard, and it all but confirmed Chekov's suspicions of high birth.
"Take your hands off me!" she shrieked at the guard who was holding her in place. "Do you know who my father is?"
Chekov's eyes flashed over the top of the platform, just at his eye level. He saw Moloz in the crowd's front row, and, from the look in his eyes, imagined that he'd said just the same thing however many years ago he'd been sold.
There was also something else in Moloz's eyes: Decision.
Sure enough, as the auctioneer named off the first price, Moloz's hand shot into the air. Another Orion made an offer, but Moloz countered it. The process continued until no one would go any higher.
"She's yours, Moloz," the auctioneer said. "Maybe you can knock some of that fire out of her, eh?"
With a grin that sent chills up Chekov's spine, Moloz replied, "She'll make good company for my other concubine. I've grown tired of mixing with humans, I'm ready for my own kind."
Moloz came up onto the stage to claim his prize and pay the trader who'd brought the girl in. Her chains were undone, and as soon as she was free, she made to deliver a blow to Moloz's jaw. Chekov knew that it was a lost effort. As soon as her fist began to fly, Moloz grabbed it and twisted her arm behind her back, leaning in close. The girl let out an exclamation of pain and fright.
"Soon you'll find out," Moloz hissed at her, "that no matter who your father is, no matter how much you think he loves you, none of that is about to matter. All that matters is me. You belong to me now, and you will please me, or I will make your life a living misery. Is that understood?"
Chekov didn't watch any farther. He didn't see the girl's response, only that Moloz seemed relatively pleased with it.
"Good," Moloz said, thrusting her to the side. "Now, stay there. I have a payment to collect."
Chekov had been so focused on what was happening on the platform that he hadn't even noticed the two Orions approaching him from behind. Grabbing him under the arms, they hauled him along up the steps to the platform. Chekov went without protest, knowing it would do him little good.
Moloz looked over at him, eyed him up and down one last time, and then turned to the crowd. "I've brought you a Terran male that I picked up on the way back from my last foray into Federation space. He's young, so he'll last any of you a good, long time. Can't be more than twenty-one of their Earth years – "
Twenty-two, Chekov thought, though he knew it was rather beside the point. I'm twenty-two, you Orion Cossack.
"For any of you looking to procure a...companion..." Moloz raised his eyebrows and looked at the crowd conspiratorially, getting a laugh out of some. "He's attractive, for a human. There is the matter of that cut on his lip. An unfortunate tryst with one of my crew caused that. It'll heal in time. And for those searching for a new addition to your mines..." He poked at Chekov's bruises, causing him to wince. "This one can survive almost any ordeal you throw at him."
Well, he wasn't wrong. Fighting a crazy Romulan, getting "promoted" to chief engineer without warning, being stranded on a foreign planet with a lunatic... Chekov was a survivor, he'd give Moloz that. And the man didn't even know the half of it.
As the bidding started, Chekov allowed his eyes to scan the arena and the sky above once more. Come on, Captain, he thought. Where are you?
"Three thousand credits," called out one of the Orion women, eyeing him with a leering smirk.
Well, at least I'm worth a decent amount, Chekov thought wryly. Any minute now would be good, sir!
"Five thousand credits!" came a call from the back of the arena, and the rest of the crew fell silent.
KIRK, YOU SYN SOOKA, GET DOWN HERE!
"Sold, to the man at the back," the auctioneer announced, and Chekov's stomach dropped to his feet. His owner stood up and worked his way toward the front. Moloz had been large enough to begin with, but even from this distance, Chekov could see this Orion was a giant. He wore a sleeveless tunic, and his muscles, likely hardened by years of mining work, bulged. Chekov swallowed hard. Something about this one's demeanor said he wasn't to be trifled with.
Moloz went up to Chekov and took the chains off of him as the other Orion made his way up the stairs.
"You know, I thought about just keeping you," Moloz said. "I could always use a manservant. But I don't think you're cut out for that kind of work. You don't look it, but you're dangerous, human. The dangerous ones always do better in the mines or as concubines. They need that kind of strength to survive the mines – and we Orions do like a bit of danger."
Chekov fought back the bile that rose to his throat as the Orion who had bought him came forward and produced his own set of chains.
"I've heard rumors about you," he growled.
"From who?" Chekov retorted, not ready to submit just yet.
The Orion slapped him, and everything Chekov had assumed about him proved true as he was knocked off his feet. Rolling over onto his back and staring up at the Orion, Chekov grabbed his stinging cheek and glared.
"You'll learn to speak only when asked to, human," his new owner growled. "And I don't recall asking for it."
Hauling him up and slapping the new chains on his wrists, the Orion shoved him down the stairs to where two others stood waiting. "Get him to the holding cell," his owner growled at the other Orions. "I'll meet you on the ship."
As he was dragged along, Chekov looked up toward the sky once more. Come on, Jim, where are you?
But even as it occurred to him that it was the first time he'd even thought of the captain by his first name, the awful realization hit Chekov that Moloz had been right. No one was coming. Not now.
He was, for the first time since the Academy, truly alone.