McCoy had only vague ideas about the actual procedures of an auction, and he was aware that most of them were hopelessly anachronistic, fueled by old documentaries of in-person auctions on Earth. He had correctly assumed that nowadays, the bidding would take place virtually, with the objects represented by holographic projections, and the bidders just tapping the screen of their clipboards or whatever else substituted for them. Nobody actually needed to be on site; they didn't even need to be in the system, or anywhere near Orion space. Their acquisitions could be beamed up or shipped to them once the credits transfer had been completed. The only people milling about in the actual auction house were those who were too paranoid to trust transporters or delivery ships, or those who wanted to explore the famous entertainment options that the Orions were more than willing to offer on the side (and for outrageous prices), or...

... those who wanted to get their hands on some of the offered items without any credit transfer whatsoever. Which meant that probably half of the people playing Dabo, or watching one of the shows, or sampling exotic aperitifs right now were either direct competitors to Kirk and his crew (of which he was a part of... he tended to suppress that fact in his mind), or security personnel. McCoy didn't dare to guess how many of those who were sitting at their tables staring intently at their screens or at the rotating holo images projected onto the tabletops were actual, honest customers.

He had thought about all that ever since he had been shanghaied into his role, not in preparation for taking the stage later, but because he couldn't stop worrying. What he hadn't taken into account was how relieved he would be to have Rand at his side.

He still didn't trust her; he hadn't even trusted her when Kirk had introduced her to him back on the icy hellhole he had claimed as his home after he had run away from his broken marriage. Of course Kirk would always fall for a damsel in distress, it was part of the white knight identity he had built up for himself: James T. Kirk, gentleman rogue. As it had turned out, she wasn't quite in as much distress as she had claimed. Probably wasn't quite as much a damsel as she still appeared to be.

But she seemed to be a lot more on top of the situation than him, and although McCoy knew that it was stupid and probably dangerous to take his cues from her, watching her eat Darleevian honey nuts was strangely soothing; maybe because she seemed to enjoy them so much.

"Really, you should try some, they're so good," she said, when she caught him watching her. "There's still time before they'll call up the swords."

"I don't understand why you can't bid on any object at any time," McCoy muttered, returning his gaze to his screen. "Why do they insist on displaying one after the other?"

"Control," Rand said curtly, and bit into the rejected nut. "Only one item is out of the vault at any time — that means less opportunity to disrupt its transport to the surface from the vault and into the buyer's hands (or equivalent appendices). It also means fewer chances of swapping items by accident. You don't want your third-century Rihannsu war poetry to end up with a Klingon, instead with your Rihannsu buyer. These people," her gesture encompassed the whole room, "have no sense of humor."

"Hm." She was always referring to the damn occupiers as 'Rihannsu' instead of calling them 'Romulans', like any self-respecting human would do (at least in private). McCoy knew it was due to her upbringing, but it was just one more quirk of hers that irritated him. He resisted the urge to drum his fingers on the table. "I wish they'd hurry up a bit."

"Remember that every second they spend on those..." she craned her neck to read over his shoulder, "Bajoran prayer bowls is a second more for Jim and Sulu to do their work in the vault."

"Shhh!" McCoy darted a quick glance around the room. The Klingon group two tables over was still in a heated discussion about some Klingon antiques that were even farther down the line than the Vulcan swords. The volume of their conversation had hopefully drowned out Rand's last remark. "Don't mention the vault and them in one... Jim?"

Rand smiled, a girlish, infatuated smile that was, unfortunately, completely genuine. "Well, he calls me Janice, so..."

McCoy pondered burying his face in his hands, but decided against it. Kirk's love life was his own problem. If he wanted to hook up with ex-Tal Shiar assets, godspeed to him, as long as he indulged in that bad idea after they were well out of Orion space.

"Calm down," Rand said, amused. "Bid on those prayer bowls to get into the swing of things."

McCoy put the clipboard down. "With my luck, I'd accidentally buy them, and we both know I couldn't afford them." He nodded at two smug-looking Cardassians lounging at the bar. "Besides, I don't want to get caught between them and that Vedek who's looking as if he'll commit murder in a moment."

Rand watched the little group with interest, but then the Vedek's face lit up with triumph, and the Cardassians looked sullen and turned around to signal the bartender for another round, and she sighed. "Well, if they had created an incident here, we would've had a neat diversion for free."

"We'd have injured or dead people," McCoy snapped. "And I wouldn't have let them bleed out on the floor! In case you've forgotten," he barely remembered to lower his voice to a hiss, "I'm actually a doctor, not a grifter!"

"Well, it didn't happen! Calm down! Look, the swords are up on display now!"

McCoy felt his gut painfully contract as he picked up his clipboard. Sure enough, there they were. Time to start bidding money that only existed in some virtual limbo of Uhura's making, glittering just enough to have fooled the Orions into accepting him as a customer. He couldn't actually buy anything with his fake account... not even the mercy of a corrupt Orion judge.

With shaking fingers, he put in his first bid.

Beside him, Rand munched on another nut. McCoy knew that she was meticulously keeping track of everything, despite appearances — her hyperthymesia was what had attracted the attention of the Romulans in the first place. Still, he wished she wouldn't be so demonstratively nonchalant about the whole procedure, even if it fit with her role as his beautiful-but-vapid companion—

Someone had already topped his bid. McCoy hastily put in a higher amount from his nonexisting, and therefore limitless, fortune.

Suddenly, Chapel's perfectly manicured hand plucked a nut from the bowl between him and Rand. "Hello, darlings," she murmured. "A silent alarm has just been triggered from the vault. Remember what I told you about your enterprising fella? I know an emergency exit that probably won't be locked for a few more minutes... Remember to smile, Leonard, you 've just been invited to an immoral adventure by a beautiful woman. Think of the onlookers!"

McCoy rose, feeling weak in the knees. A quick glance at his clipboard confirmed that the auction was still underway. Nothing around him indicated an alarm... But Chapel had no reason to lie to him, did she? She wanted a share of the money, and an exit strategy from a hated job, after all.

"And why would I let my partner go with you just like that?" Rand chimed in. "For the onlookers, I mean."

Chapel's smile turned seductive. "Oh, the invitation was for both of you, of course."

Rand jumped up. "Let's give those Cardassians something to gossip about!"

McCoy tuned out their chatter about Cardassian fantasies as he stumbled after them. His mind was racing — where was Kirk? Still in the vault? Already back on the Enterprise? Did he have the swords? Had stealing them triggered the alarm? Or had Chapel been right?

He tried to determine the point at which he should've said No to the whole thing, but found himself going further and further back in time until he arrived at his own birth.

"Mister Scott!" Chekov yelled. "Something is going on down there! Something bad!"

Mr. Scott, who had been dozing in the captain's chair, sat bolt upright. "That's not a status report, laddie!" he bellowed. "What's going on, and where's it going on, and since when—"

"All lifts and air locks have been sealed on the surface, a minute ago," Chekov sputtered, cursing himself for his blunder. "Sub-orbital defense shield activated — the whole moon is going into lockdown!" He swiveled his seat around to stare at the engineer. "Can ve beam them up through the force field?"

Mr. Scott was staring back at him, his face ashen. "No," he said, "of course we cannot!"

Checkov turned back to his console, disappointed. "Blyat." Now they wouldn't be able to prove that transporter technology was perfectly safe for people, too, and not suited only for beaming up cargo. Another opportunity to prove the superiority of Russian engineering had gone up in smoke.

"We probably won't have a choice but to use your transporter, Mr. Scott." The melodious voice of Miss Uhura broke through his gloom, like a supernova piercing a nebula. Chekov raised hopeful eyes at her; he had already thought her to be the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his young life, but now her features had taken on an almost angelic glow. He stole a quick glance at Mr. Scott to see whether he saw it, too.

Mr. Scott was rubbing his chin, too focused on the technical side of things to notice it. "I cannae change the laws of physics, Miss. As long as that force field is up, nothing is going in or out, not even a transporter beam."

Miss Uhura smiled one of her radiant smiles, and Chekov's heart began to flutter. "Leave that force field to me, Mr. Scott. As long as you can beam everyone up at a moment's notice..."

"Aye, I can do that," Mr. Scott agreed eagerly. He, too, was under her spell now.

Then she cast her beautiful eyes at him, and Chekov's heart stopped beating altogether. "And you take us out of the system at top speed as soon as they are on board."

Chekov had no breath to even whisper a yes, but he nodded with all the fervor he could muster.

Miss Uhura's smile took on a new quality, like the glint of light on a blade's edge, and Chekov's heart remembered how to beat again, and fell into a gallop.

He turned to his console, ready to catapult the Enterprise into the void as soon as Miss Uhura gave the word.

A billion stars coalesced into the sight of a gray, austere room with metal walls and a console at its far end. Someone gasped. McCoy was sure it wasn't him, because his lungs were still reassembling. Amazingly, he was still able to yell. "Did you use your transporter on me, you crazy son of a monkey?"

The object of his ire cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at something behind McCoy. "That doesnae look like a sword," Scotty proclaimed with the natural authority of the highlander.

McCoy spun around to follow his gaze, fully prepared for the horrible sight of fused or insides-out bodies. Instead, his eyes fell upon Mr. Sulu, who was peeling a green-black contraption from his backpack. It was small, but emanated a familiar nastiness. Romulan devilry, no doubt. "What is that?"

They had all been transported back to the Enterprise, he saw now. Rand was staring at the thing with a peculiar look on her face that told McCoy she knew exactly what it was, but wouldn't say a word; Kirk and Sulu grabbed the piece to haul it off the platform.

"Romulan tech," Kirk said when he caught McCoy's glare. "Cloaking device." He cast a quick glance at Chapel, then back to McCoy. "Friend of yours?"

"Oooh," Scotty said. He was making grabby hands in the thing's direction.

"It's not for you," Sulu snapped. "And we better—"

The floor buckled and McCoy felt his stomach float into his throat. It was a singularly unpleasant sensation that validated all his opinions about space, and about traveling through it.

"Gravitational controls are off," Scotty yelled. "Me engines!"

McCoy, clutching his queasy stomach, held on to the wall. Around him, people were yelling and stumbling towards the doors.

"Keptin to the bridge," Chekov's panicked voice joined the cacophony over the intercom. "Ve are under heavy fire! I need a gunner, real quick!"

"Sulu, you're with me!" Kirk barked. "Come on, I thought you were the weapons expert — now you have the opportunity to blow something up!"

Someone grabbed McCoy's arm. Chapel's worried face appeared in his field of vision. "Are you alright?"

"I'm in space," McCoy wheezed. "That cursed Scotsman just scrambled all the atoms of my body, the ship's gravitation is fluctuating a mile a minute, and Orions are shooting at us. No, I am not alright!"

Chapel wisely didn't try to soothe his rage. "Let's join the others on the bridge," she said. "I want to know what's going on."

McCoy silently agreed that if they were going to die, he wanted a front seat, too. Besides, if he had to throw up, he wanted it to be on Kirk's seat. The bastard deserved it.

They stumbled down the corridor, which was weaving under their feet as if they were on a seafaring boat of yore, and McCoy remembered his upbringing just in time to help Chapel up the ladder to the upper deck. The Enterprise was small enough not to need any lifts. McCoy didn't mind that, but apparently it didn't inspire much confidence in Chapel.

"This isn't a ship," Chapel yelped as another hit threw them off their feet just when they entered the bridge, "this is half a dozen ships held together with crooked nails and chicken wire!"

"Never say that aloud where Scotty can hear you." Kirk was staring at the main screen that showed several ships in hot pursuit; Chekov was jerking the ship around, trying to evade disruptor beams and torpedoes.

McCoy again regretted intensely that he was in the middle of all this, and not back on the hellhole he had come to call home, and guessed that Chapel now had similar regrets.

"What's the name of this junkyard?"

Now Kirk did turn to glare at Chapel. "Enterprise."

"Figures. Can she do more than rust without the help of an atmosphere?"

"Yes." That was said through clenched teeth.

McCoy felt his nausea subside as amusement took over. Scotty might have beamed her up by mistake, as she had been clutching McCoy's hand at the time, but having Chapel on board was proving to be the one thing about this mission that hadn't been a mistake.

Another hit rocked the ship. "Shields are down to fifteen percent," Sulu calmly announced from his station. McCoy thought he was suspiciously unaffected, considering the next hit would send them all to hell.

"Switch weapons control to Mr. Chekov and report to Mr. Scott in the engine room," Kirk ordered.

This did disturb the man's unflappable calm, judging by the frown on his face when he turned in his chair to face the captain. He opened his mouth, but Kirk cut him off before he could utter the first word of protest. "Face it, we can neither outrun nor outgun them. The cloaking device is our only chance of escape — your only chance to bring it back to your commanders."

There was a moment of tense silence.

And then something on the main screen caught McCoy's eye.

"Don't bother, Jim," he muttered. "Look who's coming for dinner."

"Blyat," Chekov sighed.

The Enterprise had been chased by five Orion interceptors, if McCoy had counted correctly. Now they had all tucked their metaphorical tails between their legs and had sped off, and Enterprise was only faced with one ship, which had, mathematically speaking, improved her odds.

Except, of course, for the fact that the one ship they were facing off against was a Romulan Bird of Prey.

"Trust those green-blooded hobgoblins to turn up in the worst possible moment," McCoy whispered to himself as the image of the warship wavered and dissolved on the screen to reveal the cool gaze of its commander.

"Enterprise," he said. "You are to drop your shields and surrender immediately."

He didn't even introduce himself. Of course; the masters had no reason to be polite to their lowly human subjects — and especially not to their lowly criminal human subjects. McCoy didn't believe for a second that the man was here for some vintage weaponry of the old homeworld.

"He's magnificent," Chapel breathed. McCoy shot her an annoyed glare. Her eyes were riveted at the screen.

"He's Tal Shiar," he hissed. "His carnal desires involve sharp instruments and possibly a forced mind meld." Ever since the Romulans had conquered Vulcan, they had taken care to incorporate as many of their telepathically-gifted Vulcan cousins as possible into that cursed intelligence service of theirs. It had made it one of the most ruthlessly efficient organizations in the galaxy, almost impenetrable for any outside force, as both Klingons and Cardassians, and a host of lesser powers, had learned rather painfully. Right now, Cardassia and the Empire were engaged in a war for a planet called Betazed, which was rumored to have even more powerful telepaths—

"I don't care," Chapel said dreamily. "He can meld with me any day."

"I don't think so," Kirk was saying. "I believe you've lost some valuable artifacts to the Orions; my crew was able to retrieve them for you, and we expect to be compensated for our efforts."

"Is he trying to sell them their own cloaking device?" Chapel whispered, aghast.

McCoy snorted softly. "No. He's trying to buy Scotty enough time to hook it up to the Enterprise. Nobody on this ship is stupid enough to believe the Romulans would pay us for their own stuff."

The Tal Shiar officer cocked his head slightly and raised an eyebrow. The ghost of a smile was playing on his lips, and McCoy found himself reaching for a disruptor he wasn't wearing. "As you are perfectly aware, Captain, the object was not lost to the Orions; it was stolen. That you then stole it from them does not change the fact that you are a thief, too. You were not acting on the behest of the Empire."

"I was acting on my own initiative," Kirk admitted, "but of course I was acting on the Empire's behalf."

"Naturally."

"And I'm surprised and offended that you'd treat me like a common criminal, instead of appreciating the favor I did you."

McCoy struggled against the impulse to hide his face in his hands; he didn't know if the Romulan could see him in the background.

"I assure you," the Romulan said without inflection, "I very much appreciate what you did. Drop your shields and prepare for my coming aboard."

McCoy saw Kirk's shoulders rise and fall a fraction. "Very well," Kirk said. "Just... let me inform my crew first, to avoid any, ah... misunderstandings." He turned away from the screen and made a cutting motion to Uhura, who switched off the audio.

"Sulu, to engineering, on the double! Help Scotty to get that thing operational!"

This time, the weapons expert jumped from his seat without protest. Kirk turned to Chekov. "Aim at the connection of the wing to the midsection, there isn't a hundred percent shield overlap there — no, don't execute yet. I'm sure they're scanning our every move. Just lay in the target coordinates." He waited while Chekov's fingers raced across the console. The boy looked miserable.

Not what you had expected when you wedged yourself into that mission, kid, hm? Chekov had insisted that he was the best pilot in the quadrant, better than Kirk, to which the latter had mightily taken offense, but Rand had convinced him that a backup pilot wouldn't be a bad idea, since he'd be busy commanding a bigger crew now.

Chekov was a good pilot, McCoy granted him that; now they would see if he was also a good sniper.

"They have to drop the shields to let the shuttle through," Kirk continued. "Just for a second or two, but that has to be enough — that's when you take aim and fire. You'll take them out with one shot. It's our only chance." He smiled when Chekov swallowed visibly. "You can do it, hotshot. I'm counting on you." He waved at Uhura to open the channel again.

"God help us all," McCoy murmured.