Summary and disclaimer see chapter 1

Summary and disclaimer see chapter 1

CHAPTER 3

One minute, Doctor McCoy was in his sickbay, preparing to repair Chekov's shoulder. The next thing he knew, he was standing in some sort of metal room, wondering who had transported him where, and why. As soon as they were free of the transporter beam, his patient fell to the floor, a look of almost comic confusion on his face. Of course; he'd materialized over a meter off the floor.

The doctor knelt beside him.

"Are you okay?"

Chekov rolled over.

"That hurt," he said flatly. It was quite possibly the biggest understatement ever, but it fit. He hurt in places he didn't even know existed. His bones groaned in protest every time he moved.

"We should move over there," he told the doctor, motioning to a wall. McCoy helped him up and assisted him to the wall furthest from the sun, then sat, leaning against it.

"I do not think we want to fry," he continued. "It will get hot enough in here. . ."

McCoy nodded in agreement. "I hear ya," he muttered. After being raised in Georgia, he had never wondered why he chose to live in a climate-controlled environment.

He lightly touched the ensign's uninjured shoulder. "Do you know where we are?" he asked after Chekov opened his eyes and looked at him. He thought he already knew, but he hoped he was wrong.

The younger man paused for a moment, trying to decipher what he'd said. Finally, he nodded.

"Nodya."

On the planet. Great. Just what they'd needed.

"The Captain will have to guess where we are," he continued dejectedly. "He cannot scan the planet, and we do not even know where this is." He closed his eyes and leaned back again. By habit, McCoy noted how pale and drawn he looked, how exhausted he sounded, more than could be accounted for by his medical condition. He couldn't tell if he was sick beneath all that pain, or something else.

He wished he had something to do. In fact, he wished he had his sickbay here. No, he wished he was in his sickbay, on the Enterprise, warping straight out of this solar system, instead of in this god-forsaken oven.

He rose to his feet and started pacing, in spite of the stifling heat.

Chekov opened his eyes.

"You should not do that. It is hazardous to your health."

McCoy smiled, acknowledging his attempt at humor, but kept pacing until he decided it was simply too much trouble and sat beside Chekov. He stared at the agonizingly similar walls and perfectly matched corners, aching for something to look at. It was hopeless. The barred window was the most interesting thing in the room, and he couldn't bring himself to decide to walk in the sunlight and touch the hot metal. Probably a wise decision.

Footsteps clanged behind one of the walls, drawing McCoy out of the stuporous semi-doze he hadn't even realized he'd entered. He jerked to face the wall to their left, opposite the window.

A panel of the wall slid away, revealing a Rodt'hir and a distinctly feline humanoid., both wearing the toga-like garments common to the planet.

"We are sorry to have kept you waiting," the Rodt'hir said mechanically as the feline knelt beside Chekov. "D'Va will help your friend."

"The catlike D'Va drew an ancient medical device from inside her toga, (McCoy wasn't sure how he knew she was a 'she', but he did), which had a needle on the end which looked more like it belonged in a Klingon torture chamber than in anybody's hospital. It was filled with some sort of clear liquid. She stuck the needle into Chekov's arm, waking him in the process, and injected the liquid into his bloodstream despite his startled and protesting face before the doctor could really think about it.

"There," she purred. "He should begin to hear again soon."

"Why should I believe you?" McCoy asked cynically.

"Why shouldn't you?"

Chekov looked at her warily, but his expression slowly changed to one of reluctant wonder, even as McCoy was trying to convince D'Va that he didn't believe her. It was like arguing with Spock.

"Doctor," he said, breaking into the "discussion". "It worked." The doctor grudgingly acknowledged that she was right, then helped Chekov up.

"Follow us," the Rodt'hir commanded as he struck off down the hall. McCoy and Chekov hobbled after him, followed by D'Va.

He'd expected it to be cooler outside, but he was still shocked at how much cooler it was. He shivered and his arms broke out in goosebumps beneath his light shirt. He heard Chekov gasp, but that seemed to be the extent of the Russian's reaction; he never knew how close Chekov came to pulling them both over sideways.

He recognized the encroaching darkness for what it was and pulled himself back toward consciousness, feeling the ensign's right hand (how that must hurt!) supporting him, a concerned look on his face.

"I'm all right," he mumbled. "Never did like the cold.."

Chekov lowered his arm with an unconscious grimace. McCoy straightened and looked after the Rodt'hir that had been leading them, who had vanished.

"Do you require assistance?"

The doctor spun around at the sound of D'Va's voice, accidentally causing Chekov to fall into the wall of the narrow corridor. He had, in fact, forgotten about her.

'Uh, no, I'm fine," he said after regaining his composure. "Is it far to where we're going?" He helped Chekov back up.

"No, it is not far. This way." She started forward, brushing past them.

"So, where are we going, anyway?" he asked, helping Chekov limp after her.

"To your new room." Her answers, just as simple and literal as Spock's, exasperated him. He gave up and walked in silence.

He looked at the featureless off-white metal walls as they passed. There wasn't so much as a seam to see, an opening into another hallway, a door, or even a corner. They might have been in a dilithium mine for all the open room there was between the walls, spaced a meter apart.

They rounded the first corner he'd noticed and saw, in the distance, a confusing starburst pattern where eight halls intersected. D'Va stopped by a door, also the first he'd seen, opposite of the Rodt'hir.

"You will stay here," she told them unceremoniously.

McCoy stopped almost imperceptibly and regarded her, then continued inside. D'Va followed them inside and stood in the doorway.

"We know of the almost obsessive need humans have for privacy. You will be left alone." She turned on her heel and left, the door slamming shut behind her.

The doctor surveyed the room. There were two wide, low mats that he supposed were beds, a built in clothes dresser, and a walled off section that was probably a bathroom.

"That makes no sense," Chekov said as he limped over to one of the beds. "Why are we here if we're just going to be left alone?"

"Uh-huh."

"Maybe they are studying us."

"Maybe, but I doubt it. Why would they need to?"

Chekov shrugged lopsidedly.

"What," the doctor mused, "could they get from kidnapping two Starfleet personnel that they couldn't get quicker and easier by becoming a member if the Federation?"

"War," Chekov said wearily.

"Yeah, but I doubt they want war."

"Maybe they do."

"That's crazy. Who wants war?"

"Klingons, Romulans,-"

"Okay, I get the point. But why the Federation, if they want war? There are a lot of other races out there that would be a whole lot easier to conquer."

The Russian shrugged again. "A challenge."

McCoy only nodded.

Kirk and Spock, looking eerily like Rodt'hir, climbed onto the transporter platform, where Scott was at the controls.

"Give us four hours," Kirk told the engineer. "If we don't report back by then, beam us out immediately."

"Aye."

"Energize."

The hum of the transporter filled his ears as the world faded out.

. . . and then snapped right back in.

"Mr. Scott, I said 'energize'."

"Aye, and I did. Somethin's blockin' the transporter; ye canna go down in the city." He took the transporter's inadequate performance as a personal insult.

"Try one kilometer north, and if that doesn't work, keep adding one until you get through," he said as he repositioned himself on the pad.

"Aye."

Again the hum sounded, and the room morphed into a desert scene. The unrelenting suns beat down on them, causing Kirk to shield his eyes. Spock started toward a dark smudge on the horizon, after consulting his tricorder and secreting it away in his toga again. The captain followed a step behind him.

"How long till you can tell if they're here?"

"Due to the limited range of my tricorder," Spock replied, "it may be several hours before I can get a definitive reading."

They walked in silence toward the city.

Chekov was sitting against the wall on his bed, wearing a Rodt'hir shirt he'd gotten from the dresser in the wall.

He casually glanced up a McCoy. He saw instead a Rodt'hir, sitting much like he had been himself, head bowed, leaning against the wall. He jerked his head upright and banged it painfully against the wall behind him.

Before his eyes, the Rodt'hir seemed to morph into McCoy.

"You're one of them," he breathed as he backed into the corner.

McCoy looked up. "Hm?" he asked innocently.

"You're one of them. I saw you."

"What? Calm down." McCoy stood slowly. "What are you talking about?"

"You are! You're one of them!"

"Huh? One of who?" He started forward.

Chekov jerked his head toward the door. "Them."

A classic case of paranoia; a nameless 'them' and everybody was out to get him.

"Why do you say I'm one of them?"

"Stay away from me."

McCoy ignored him and kept going. "Why do you think so?" Wha he wouldn't give for his sickbay!

"I saw you; you changed. From one of them to you."

Great. He was paranoid and dillusional.

He would even settle for a tricorder and a sedative.

"Hey, calm down. You were just hallucinating.." Just?

What am I doing? I'm a doctor, not a psychologist!

He stopped beside the bed, trying to calm the Russian.

Chekov hit him.

As he went sprawling, McCoy wondered at how much strength he had in one arm while the other was effectively useless. It was something he'd hoped never to have the opportunity to witness.

"Stay away from me. Don't come near me!"

As he picked himself up off the ground, the doctor hoped he'd be able to get out when Chekov got to the "get them before they get me" stage of paranoia. He hoped.

Kirk stopped by a building in the capitol city.

"Here?"

Spock nodded. "Several levels beneath us."

Night had long-since fallen, and the captain was grateful, though it was still hot.

Kirk opened the door and warily peered inside, temporarily forgetting that to anyone else, they were both apparently Rodt'hir. Nodding to Spock, he continued inside.

They found themselves in a long hallway, white and utterly featureless. It ended at a white and featureless door such as all the others they'd encountered on the planet. There wasn't a seam or corner anywhere in sight.

The door opened onto a three-way intersection of hallways, one going down, the next straight on, the last sloping up. Kirk chose the far left one, heading down.

"How far is it, Spock?"

"It is still some distance, Captain."

They walked in silence until they reached an intersection where seven other corridors branched away. Spock pointed at one and they continued on,

It had been hours since Chekov had last spoken to him, but McCoy had felt the younger man's gaze on him the whole time. It was making him paranoid.

Finally, he couldn't sit still any longer. He stood up and started pacing in the small space between the beds. Chekov was still watching him with the intensity of a tiger watching it's prey.

From a medical standpoint, he couldn't help wondering what was making the Russian act that way. He had finally decided that he was probably going insane, but something didn't quite ring true about that.

He heard his roommate muttering and turned to look at him. He seemed to be arguing with himself.

"Are you okay?" Besides going totally nuts he thought but didn't add to his question. For a moment he remained unnoticed, and he wished he hadn't been once he was.

Chekov shuddered violently and looked up at him suddenly, with eyes nearly devoid of sanity. The doctor took an involuntary step backward.

The Russian maneuvered himself off the bed and managed to stand shakily. He appeared to have reached a decision.

"You won't ever use that thing on anyone ever again," he said. He may as well have been speaking Russian of all that McCoy knew what he was talking about.

"Calm down," he told him, none too calm himself. He might as well have been talking to a diagnostic bed for all that Chekov listened. He tried to conjure up the indignant doctor routine, but it didn't do much good faced with a madman. Chekov lurched forward, his insane eyes fixed on McCoy's. The doctor stepped back, but knew he was soon going to run out of floorspace.

For every forward step of Chekov's he took one back, and he soon ran into the wall as he'd predicted. Unfortunately, he had no plan A, never mind plan B.

"Never again," he heard, perhaps not even meant for him, then the world exploded.

Spock stopped at a closed door, blocked by a gelatinous red barrier.

"Behind here."

Kirk touched the blob, thinking it would be soft and pliant. Instead, it burned his hand like acid. He yanked it back, blistered.

"Fascinating," Spock said, consulting his tricorder. "It appears to be biotic, emitting a highly acidic compound when touched, making it effectively-"

"Spock," Kirk broke in. "Is there any way to get through it?"

"Perhaps." He took out his phaser, setting it to the highest setting, then aimed it at the blob and fired. It started smoldering, but otherwise remained intact until Kirk added his weapon to the fray. A hole appeared in the center and slowly burned its way outward. When all but a few tattered remains had been burned away, Kirk heard a muffled thud. He pushed on the door, which resisted only until they heard the hum of a transporter.

It swung open, giving them a glimpse of a transporter beam's red sparkle, just before it faded away.

"It would appear," Spock observed, "that we are too late."

Kirk pulled out his communicator and flipped it open.

"Kirk to Enterprise."

"Scott here."

"Two to beam up, Mr. Scott."

He could hear the surprise in his engineer's voice. "Aye."

He flipped it closed and waited to be back on his ship. When it didn't happen, he called back.

"What's the problem."

"Ye're gonna havta move back outta the city," Scott told him apologetically.

"Still being blocked?"

"Aye."

Kirk frowned, accompanied by Spock's raised eyebrow. "McCoy and Chekov were just beamed out."

He could hear the other man shrug. "I dinna know how that's possible. We canna get you back now."

"Understood. Kirk out." He closed it and turned to Spock.

"I suggest we get moving." Spock inclined his head and started walking after his captain.

As the transporter beam gripped him, McCoy was dimly grateful. Just as he was immobilized, so was Chekov. He could see the fading red sparkle even as his body tingled and the background morphed into unfamiliar grey-green walls and relative darkness.

He fell backward as the transporter released them, no longer supported by a wall. Chekov lunged clumsily forward, then stopped and retreated., a semblance of sanity returning to his eyes. The doctor considered their surroundings.

Even lying on his back on the floor, the faint hum of the engines told him that they were on a ship, and it sure wasn't the Enterprise. The poor lighting, the colors, even the visible hexagonal shape of the panels that made up the walls, all pointed to one conclusion. He climbed to his feet dizzily and looked at their captors.

"I don't suppose," he said to the scowling Klingons, "that you'd care to call our ship for us."