A/N: Egads! Apologies, dear readers, for the delay in posting. I'm currently coordinating a 1,000 mile move for my new job (yay) and life has been more than hectic! However, you do get a slightly longer chapter as a result.

Many thanks to the wonderful Lina-Baggins for the beta read and excellent suggestions. I've tampered with it, so any errors are my own fault.

Disclaimers and warnings of the previous chapters all apply here.

Seventh Circle

Chapter 3

"I just don't get it, why bother to torture someone if you're not even gonna ask any questions?"

"I agree; it is illogical. The effort required to capture and hold five valuable Starfleet officers implies an advanced degree of organization, and thus some greater purpose."

"Want to hazard a hypothesis as to what that purpose might actually be, Spock?"

"It is puzzling. We have ruled out gathering of information. Janusia has nearly unlimited wealth in dilithium crystals, so we may theoretically rule out ransom. Perhaps for the enjoyment of inflicting pain on another… though it does seem an extraordinary amount of trouble to go to for such a mundane purpose."

"Mundane? Do you realize what you're saying, man?"

"As I have reminded you on numerous occasions, Doctor, humans are not the only species in the galaxy."

And so on.

Kirk sighs and leans his head wearily against the damp stone wall. He is tired of the argument. McCoy and Spock have been bickering longer than he cares to admit. Both men are too pig-headed to quit while the other might be ahead. Kirk gave up on the debate hours ago, after it had ceased to be productive and before it became circular.

McCoy paces now, stopping only to emphasize points in his argument with Spock. The light cast from his chrono bobs weirdly as he walks. His bare arms are folded against the dank chill of the cell, occasionally obscuring the small light completely and plunging them all into unmitigated darkness. Kirk knows the doctor is worried about Giacomo, frustrated by his inability to do anything to help Chekov, and taking it all out on Spock.

Well, the Vulcan can handle it. Part of his charm is the singular ability to trim down McCoy's emotional outbursts at inopportune moments. Kirk has bigger problems to deal with. Chekov sleeps cradled against Kirk's muscular torso. His breathing is quick and shallow; too shallow for Kirk's (or McCoy's) liking. One side of Kirk's body is going numb from lack of circulation. He knows he should move, but he is unwilling to disturb the sleeping boy. This way, Kirk knows Pavel is still breathing. There is still nothing from Giacomo, which simultaneously disturbs and relieves the captain. Unnerving as it is to hear nothing, at least they don't have to listen to the anthropologist screaming.

The stone wall feels almost pleasantly cool now against the back of Kirk's head as he shifts slightly into a more comfortable position. He tunes out the increasingly rancorous debate raging at the other end of the cell. His weary brain begrudgingly obliges, automatically beginning to replay the memories of the day previous that Kirk has been scouring for anything that could tell him how a normal, ordinary, boring diplomatic visit landed him and his men in this house of horrors.

Kirk strode confidently up onto the transporter platform, his usual swagger looking somewhat less ridiculous now that it was backed by the three silver rings around his cuffs. The away team was already assembled there: Spock, of course; Bones, dour at the prospect of getting dragged along for another of Jim's fool adventures; Chekov, failing miserably at not bouncing with excitement; and Lieutenant Rick Giacomo, an anthropologist sent out by Starfleet to keep Kirk from causing irreparable diplomatic harm by using the wrong fork at a state dinner or some such nonsense. Kirk wouldn't have minded so much if the man hadn't been an insufferable know-it-all and desperate to prove himself worthy of something other than flying a desk.

Christ, he was already lecturing about the Janusian caste system and they weren't even off the transporter pad yet. Kirk shot Bones an exasperated look, but the doctor was unsympathetic. He maintained it was Jim's own damn fault Starfleet decided to assign him a babysitter.

Chekov stirs slightly, the small movement instantly snapping Kirk out of his reverie. The young navigator looks even more vulnerable now, in his sleep, than he had before when they first dragged him away. Not for the first time that night, guilt stabs at the captain like a hot knife.

"Sorry I dragged you into this, kid," Kirk murmurs, too softly for the warring doctor and first officer to hear. "But don't worry…we'll get out. I'll…I'll get us out."

To Kirk's surprise (and mortification), a small, sleepy voice responds.

"I know you vill, Keptin."

The unwavering faith reflected in Chekov's simple statement hits Kirk as hard as Dopey's punch to the gut. Suddenly unable to look at the navigator, he looks back at the door and swallows the lump forming in his throat.

The Janusians were pleasant enough hosts. They were more-or-less humanoid in appearance, with willowy figures and blue-tinged skin. Their eyes were very large and gold, with horizontal pupils. They reminded Jim of frogs' eyes, just like the big brown-spotted amphibians he and his brother Sam used to find along the river back home. Dressed in long shimmering robes, their graceful movements were almost hypnotic. Unfortunately, so were their monotone voices, but at least the women were good-looking enough to make the trip interesting, Kirk thought appreciatively.

McCoy finally gives up on his argument with Spock, and stalks over to take a seat on Kirk's left.

"Pointy-eared bastard," he mutters under his breath, just loudly enough that Kirk can hear him. To Jim's relief, McCoy is somewhat calmer now after the emotional release of the debate. He reaches over to check Chekov's vitals again, frowning.

The unflappable Vulcan joins them after a moment, taking a seat on Kirk's right. His dark eyes glimmer slightly as they meet Kirk's blue gaze. Kirk glances back at McCoy for a moment, before looking back at Spock to give his first officer a grateful nod. He could swear the corner of Spock's mouth quirks slightly in response to his captain's unspoken thanks. Kirk can't help smiling a little as he turns back to face the cell door, thanking the universe in general for his first officer.

The dinner held in their honor was better than Jim had dared hope. The local cuisine was that rare combination of both digestible by humans (and Vulcans) and tasty. Spock was seated several places down from Kirk and McCoy, while Giacomo was mercifully occupied with some local dignitary. A few of the younger Janusian women were making much of a red-eared Pavel Chekov. Kirk's Janusian neighbor had excused himself for a few moments, so he was free to enjoy a quiet (if brief) drink with Bones. The doctor had come across a pale gold local concoction on the well-spread table, and while it had nothing on their usual drinks of choice, they were both enjoying it. Apparently the golden drink was popular; a half-empty glass rested at Chekov's elbow.

Was it Kirk's imagination, or were some of the Janusians beginning to stare? It was probably just his imagination. Janusians blinked very little, and with those huge eyes they often gave the impression that they were staring. Well, that was Giacomo's explanation, anyway. Then why was that funny tingling feeling, the one Jim privately called his captain-sense, spreading across the back of his neck?

Whatever was in the drinks affected skinny Chekov first. The teenager's movements were becoming progressively less coordinated with time. Now he was wobbling noticeably, and the three Janusian girls were beginning to stare. Bones rolled his eyes. "Better go cut the kid off, Jim."

"I made him swear up and down on his Russian honor or whatever that he wouldn't go overboard tonight," Kirk frowned. "He knows there's more at stake here than shore leave."

It wasn't like Chekov to forget a promise --especially one to his Captain-- but promise or not, Kirk still had to deal with it. Large golden eyes from around the table were beginning to swivel towards the navigator. Kirk had just reluctantly decided to get up when Chekov suddenly tipped off his chair.

"Oh for chrissake," Bones growled impatiently as they waited for the kid to get to his feet. The doctor's annoyance quickly faded to alarm as Chekov remained motionless on the rich carpet. McCoy was out of his chair in a twinkling and reaching for the medical tricorder he always carried. He stopped short suddenly. "Whoa."

"Bones?" Kirk's vivid blue eyes narrowed as the doctor reeled and gripped the edge of the table firmly. The doctor shook his head slightly to clear it. Numerous golden eyes watched them intently without any trace of alarm.

Almost as if they were expecting something to happen.

"What the devil—"

"Bones!"

There was a crash of cutlery and a heavy thud as McCoy hit the ground in a tangle of Starfleet blue and black. Something was very, very wrong. Adrenaline surged into Kirk's veins. Spock was rising in his seat, but it was too late.

It struck Kirk like that one shot too many, the one that pushed you off of the bar and onto the floor. He jumped up from the table, numbed hands fumbling at his belt for his communicator. But somewhere along the way, his legs forgot how to jump and he fell backwards over the chair. Myriad golden eyes watched impassively as he fell.

He hit the floor hard enough to knock most of the breath from his body. The communicator spun uselessly out of reach. Kirk twitched weakly on the floor, trying to convince his body to obey frantic commands from his brain. A flash of scarlet, followed by another, distant thud told him that Giacomo had also succumbed. Spock was standing over Kirk now, communicator in hand. His vision was fading rapidly as he watched the Vulcan raise the communicator to his lips. The last thing Kirk remembered seeing before losing consciousness was a barbed Janusian ceremonial club crashing into the side of Spock's head.

Kirk wakes suddenly, jolted back to consciousness by the panicked start of Pavel Chekov. Disoriented and struggling with the terrified boy, he manages to smack the back of his head painfully hard into the stone wall behind him in the process. Swearing under his breath, Kirk grips Chekov's shoulders firmly and looks over his head. It's easy to find the source of his distress.

Approaching footsteps sound down the hall and it isn't long before Runty and Ugly appear out of the darkness, illuminated by light spilling down the hall from another open door. Spock and McCoy draw together protectively in front of Kirk and Chekov. But their captors do not focus on the captives at the rear of the cell.

Instead, Runty's red eyes glint evilly as he points at McCoy.

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