The Taming 3

(hypertext version)

By Skazinetilsky, PB Wrapper and Karmen Ghia

"Chekov, are you all right?"

"I thought I saw..." The lieutenant stared at the street vendor's cart where only an old woman stood now. "... someone I knew. "

Sulu was too polite to express his disbelief more strongly than in the soft dubious laugh he gave before taking his helmpartner's arm and guiding him forward.

It did seem highly unlikely that the navigator would run into an acquaintance on Gandrine 3. It was a planet on the edges of territory claimed by both the Federation forces and the Klingons. Gandrine played the coquette allowing herself to be wooed by Federation and Empire without pledging herself to either. Chekov reassessed looking at the street scene. More likely Gandrine was playing the whore, jumping into bed with whoever had the most valuables at the moment. All in all Gandrine wasn't the sort of place that people you'd like to know lived and did business. Then again, the person Chekov thought he saw was not someone he was pleased to have known.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Sulu repeated after a moment. "You look pale."

Perfectly natural after seeing a ghost, Chekov thought. What he said aloud was, "It's very hot. Could we get a drink?"

"Let me check the list. "The helmsman broke out a small device that looked like a tricorder. "What's on the menu today?"

For security reasons, personnel on leave were required to travel in pairs during the day and groups of at least five at night. As a further precaution, they were given a list of establishments to patronize. The selection rotated each day so no one business would get the reputation of being a Star Fleet hangout. Since this arrangement tended to make on-leave personnel to travel in packs, it also created a false impression for the locals of how many of them there were. Which was what the Enterprise was here to do -- maintain the impression of a strong Federation presence. Gandrine certainly hadn't been chosen as a shore leave planet for its scenic qualities.

"Here's a good one," Sulu said, grinning as he tapped the read out. "Local Bar #234. Prices -- moderate. Beverage selection: mind-numbingly unimaginative. Cuisine: The best that can be said is that it will not linger in your digestive system very long. Atmosphere: quiet desperation."

Chekov rolled his eyes. "Who is writing these?"

"Someone in the Science department -- maybe one of the sociologists. Obviously someone who doesn't want to be doing that job much longer. "

"They're taking the wrong approach," Chekov said, shaking his head. " Mr. Spock will merely reprimand the person for being frivolous. He'd only take the individual off the assignment for being inaccurate -- Unfortunately."

"Oh, come on. I don't see any harm in it."

"I do." Chekov crossed his arms. "We're visiting all the worst places on the planet simply because you find their descriptions amusing."

"Here's another good one," Sulu said eagerly, ignoring him in favor of the tiny screen's read out. " Local bar 236 -- A picturesque spot from which to be shanghaied. Beverages -- Ill advised. Cuisine -- slightly less lethal than the patrons. Atmosphere -- Abandon all hope ye who enter here."

The navigator sighed. "I think I prefer the one with quiet desperation. Is it far?"

"We're practically on top of it," Sulu replied, snapping the lid of the device closed and heading off confidently.

This, Chekov knew, didn't mean anything. Sulu was a superb pilot, but one didn't have to travel on ground with him for very long to see why he'd not become a navigator. The Russian shrugged to himself and followed his helmpartner's lead resignedly.

As they travel down streets of unquiet desperation, (passing several perfectly nice bars that Chekov knew Sulu would tell him were not on the list today), the navigator thought about the Klingon he'd seen. *Thought* he'd seen. It couldn't be him. That one was dead. The one who had claimed him two years ago when he'd been captured by that Klingon ship. . . .

"Dead," Chekov said to himself firmly, refusing to entertain even the smallest hint of a memory about the incident. He'd put all that behind him long ago.

Or had he? It worried the navigator that he'd thought he'd seen that particular Klingon. Was it an implicitly racist, 'All of them look alike' reaction? Or did this indicate that on some subconscious level, he still had issues left unresolved?

An unexpected noise brought Chekov back to the present and prompted him to full awareness of his surroundings. Sulu had led them into a twisting corridor between two rows of haphazardly placed storage units. The main passageway they'd been traveling down was not currently visible, nor was the street they were presumably walking towards. It had all the hallmarks of what Sulu would consider a shortcut, but was also a perfect spot for an ambush.

"Sulu," he said, slowing as he looked about him from where the noise had come. "I don't think we should.…"

A blue stream of energy shot out from between two of the buildings. The helmsman crumpled to the pavement, stunned.

Chekov reached for his phaser. Before he could grasp it, what felt like a Klingon disruptor was pressed to the back of his head.

"No move," the distorted voice of the person holding the pistol ordered. As his assailant relieved the navigator of his weapon and communicator, two rag-robed figures scurried from the shadows to do the same to his fallen comrade. Swathed from head to toe, it was impossible to tell who or even what manner of creatures they were. Too small for Klingons. Probably locals of some sort.

One of the attackers took the tricorder Sulu had been carrying as the other dragged the helmsman into the alley from which they'd emerged. He …or she …or it pushed the device up to the navigator's face." Work this!" the mugger demanded through a raspy voice synthesizer, its eyes -- or eye shielded by an opaque visor.

Chekov frowned. Information that would enable one to predict the movements of Federation personnel on leave would have to be deemed quite valuable to criminal elements. He hoped it was not valuable enough for them to kill for. "No."

The attacker hesitated as the navigator hoped he would. "Shoot him," the criminal holding him decided.

Disappointingly, the other agreed seemed to agree that this was a sensible course of action.

Chekov closed his eyes as the disrupter was pointed at him, hoping that he was only going to be stunned.

There was a whine and a flash.

He opened his eyes, surprised to find that instead of him it was the creature with the gun who'd been evaporated. With a quiet thump, something made an impact against the back of the local holding him. Perhaps a knife. His captor went suddenly rigid, then its grip loosened.

Chekov tried shake it off and to turn to face the new entrant into the fray, but he found himself once more in the clutches of someone. Someone big. Someone with a strangely familiar smell.