Return to Valjiir Stories
Return to Valjiir Continnum
When Chekov and Paget returned to the Inn, Pavel had to again fend off the attentions of the two young people who had presented themselves at his door. They were apparently the innkeeper's son and daughter, anxious to, as they put it, ensure that the wealthy merchant's stay was a particularly pleasant one. When Pavel pointed out that he was married, the two exchanged glances, shrugged, and gave the Uradan equivalent of 'so?'
"He also has a beautiful assistant," Paget growled, then showed his teeth. "And me."
The two backed off at that, but, as Jeremy pointed out as he and Chekov climbed the stairs to their suite,
"Those two are gonna keep at it, Master Chavask."
"Why should they?" the navigator returned. "I've told them no. Twice."
Paget shrugged. "They will, believe me." A grin pulled at his features and he quelled the impulse. "I know the type," he added.
"I imagine you do," Chekov muttered, and Jeremy had to quell another kind of urge.
Uhura and Daffy were already there, Uhura apparently fixing dinner, Daffy relaxing on a couch with a brand new pipeful of brand new Rigellian. "Hey, bubee, we found out…" the chemist began brightly.
Jeremy held up a hand, stopping her, then again swept their rooms for scanning devices, pointing out afterwards that they'd all been out of the suite at the same time, and it was better to be paranoid than over-confident. When he nodded that the rooms were still clean, Daffy stuck out her tongue at him, then resumed what she'd been going to say.
"We found out that there IS price undercutting going on," she said. "And everybody knows about the Havens, probably a lot more than the CEO'd be comfortable with. And nobody likes the Klingons." She smiled sweetly at
Paget, who growled back. Then they grinned at each other.
Chekov nodded, while frowning at the pipe. "We were able to confirm that as well," he said "We also discovered that the undercutting is not being done by any of the legal traders."
"Not surprising," Uhura put in. "Have you decided on the best way to investigate the local underground?"
"It's late," Paget said, sitting down and pulling off his uncomfortable boots. "We'll tackle that in the morning." Then he sighed, stretching out his legs and wriggling his toes. "Hey, Daffodil, you gonna share that?" he asked.
"Oh, I DO beg your pardon, Master Kring," she said coquettishly, and rose, handing him the pipe. "I didn't know Klingons indulged."
"You'd be surprised what Klingons indulge in," he replied with a creditable leer.
"Would I?" she breathed. "Would I really?"
"Daphne," Chekov put in sourly. The chemist turned to him, giggling.
"Did you want some smoke too, bubee?"
The navigator's frown deepened. "I would rather not," he stated, crossing his arms. "She's just yankin' your chain, Tovarish," Jeremy said with a chuckle.
"Or maybe you want to play a couple of rounds of - what was the name of that Russian drinking game? You know, the one we played on Lorelei?" Daffy said, her face the picture of innocence - except for the devilish twinkle in her eyes.
"Drinking game?" Uhura said with interest.
"Never mind," Pavel scowled, to which all three of them replied, "You never do!" then burst into gales of laughter.
Jeremy decided to forego the bedroom to which Chekov had assigned him and sat on the couch in the living area, thoughtfully puffing on Daffy's pipe. He didn't trust the merchant's kids not to sneak into the room; their father undoubtedly had a master key. While he had brushed off their insistence to the mission commander, he wasn't at all convinced that their intentions were the obvious sexual ones they had presented. There was a faint but persistent red alert going off somewhere in the back of his mind, and long experience had taught him never to ignore it, no matter how paranoid it made him appear.
He glanced up at the soft click from one of the other bedroom doors. Uhura was belting a robe as she emerged from the room, a frown marring her beautiful features.
"I see you can't sleep through the caterwauling either," she scowled as she took a seat next to him.
"Caterwauling?" he asked.
She stared at him with frank disbelief.
He quickly reoriented his thinking from the red alert in his brain and became aware of not-very-subtle noises coming from the third bedroom.
"Oh, that," he chuckled. "I learned to tune that kind of thing out a long time ago."
"Lucky you," the communications officer sighed.
"It's a Japanese thing," he explained, which, judging by the look of incomprehension on Uhura's face, was no explanation at all. He sat up a little straighter.
"Traditional Japanese homes have shojis for walls - rice paper in bamboo frames," he elaborated. "Noise and the shadows of people moving in other rooms are really easy to discern, so Japanese people learn never to see or hear what they're not supposed to see or hear, even though they plainly can." He smiled at the memories. "And since I spent a lot of time in a traditional Japanese home, I learned that skill too."
"Sulu," Uhura stated decisively.
Jeremy's grin widened. "Yep."
"So, if not the Dasha and Pasol pornography," Uhura said, "what IS keeping you awake?"
"Just going over all the information we have so far, trying to sense a pattern," Paget replied.
"Would it help to talk through it?"
Paget grinned. "It might. And even if it doesn't, the company would be exceptionally welcome."
Uhura rose and went to the small kitchenette, getting two cups of what passed on this planet for coffee.
After taking a sip, Jeremy grimaced. "Well, if this isn't evidence to rule out Seeders, I don't know what is," he remarked. "You'd think beings who cared for the well-being of their so-called children would arrrange for there to be decent coffee everywhere in the galaxy. Or at least decent coffee-like substances."
Uhura laughed. "Is that another thing you learned from Sulu?" she asked.
"Probably," Paget admitted.
"This does have a small stimulant effect," Uhura reminded. "And it is liquid and sort of brownish."
Jeremy's silence told her he wasn't convinced.
Uhura settled back down on the couch next to him. "So, what have we learned so far?"
"Unfortunately, not much more than we knew when we first got here. We've just confirmed what the briefing told us - which is something, I suppose."
"But not enough," Uhura agreed. "But..." She paused, pursing her lips in thought. "... everyone here seems to know about Havens and Klingons, and while some traders blame the Havens, there doesn't seem to be any serious recriminations. Which makes me wonder what the CEO is really worried about." She took a sip of her coffee-like substance, made a face, then put it down on the small table next to the couch. "Aside from his profits, of course."
"I've been thinking about that, too," Jeremy returned. "Why did Omm Monolem call on us to handle what seems to be a clearly internal Haven matter? From what I've read, that's not like Havens at all."
Uhura nodded. "Last time, they were very annoyed at what they called our interference." A wistful smile touched her lips. "Of course not every Haven was exactly annoyed."
"Specifically your Haven Prince I-Love-My-Work," Paget grinned.
"Don't distract me," the communications officer scolded.
"So, who's doing the undercutting, and how, and why?" Jeremy said, returning to the important point of the conversation - though he knew very well that Uhura might not consider it the important point.
"The common people don't seem to mind it all that much," Uhura mused. "They like getting their goods cheap."
"Yeah, it's the merchants and the upper echelons who are hurting." Paget paused. "Do you think there's some social revolution aspect to this? A 'down with the upper class' sort of thing?"
"That's not very Haven," Uhura pointed out.
"And the Havens are hurting too, so that's strong indication that they're not behind this, in addition to the fact they they were the ones complaining about it." Jeremy paused again. "Not that I would necessarily put double-dealing past them."
"You Security people all think alike, you know," Uhura grinned.
"Still talking about Haven Prince I-Love-My-Work, are you?"
"WILL YOU TWO SHUT UP OUT THERE?!" Daffy's voice suddenly screeched. "SOME people are trying to SLEEP!"
Shaking his head, Paget rose from the couch. "Well, I guess the pornography is over for the night." He offered his hand to help Uhura to stand. "Get some sleep, fair maiden."
Uhura laughed. "Sulu again," she said.
Jeremy smiled. "And your line is..."
"Sorry. Neither," she replied, then kissed him on the cheek.
He waited until her bedroom door closed behind her, then settled back down on the couch. He took another sip of the 'coffee,' gagged, and put it down. Glad you're not here, babe, he thought to the ever-present ghost in his head. This stuff would kill you.
"You know, it really works better to investigate the seedier side of town at night," Daffy stated the next morning as she munched on a piece of fruit the innkeeper's children - whom she had dubbed the Trouble Twins - had so thoughtfully provided the day before.
"That may be," Chekov replied, "But it is also more dangerous at night."
"Even with your big, bad Klingon guard to protect you?"
"I prefer not to take unnecessary chances," the Russian returned.
Daffy grinned at him. "Oh, how sweet."
"I am the mission commander," he finished.
Daffy's grin faded into a frown. "And here I thought you were being romantic."
"He never loses sight of the mission," Paget put in, hoping to forestall an argument.
"But Daffy has a point," Uhura added with the same goal in mind. "Perhaps Kring and I can do some reconnaissance. After all, you're the rich merchant and we're servants. It would make sense for us to visit the lower class establishments. Then we can see if there's anything worth more exploration after sunset." Chekov frowned.
"That does make sense, Lieutenant Commander," Jeremy stated. His obvious deference and appeal to Chekov's hierarchical nature made Daffy roll her eyes. Uhura disguised a laugh as a cough. "You and the wife can go shopping, maybe gather some concrete evidence of the prices that are being undercut."
"That sounds useful," Daffy agreed with a bright, endearing smile. "Or I could stay here with a loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou." She batted her eyelashes.
The Russian flushed. "Daphne, we are here to gather information," he reminded.
"Hey, Daffodil," Paget interrupted, as though he had just thought of it, "do you think you could get the Trouble Twins up here for an informative chat?"
"What, you want I should flirt outrageously right in front of Hubby here?"
"Well, you can flirt outrageously with Mr. Twin. I know how you are." He winked and Daffy stuck her tongue out at him with a heart-felt "Ewww!" "And I know Pavel can manage the same with Miss Twin."
"What is it with you always finding a reason to throw pretty girls at him when we're on a mission?" the chemist demanded with a scowl.
Jeremy shrugged. "Guess that's just the way the mission crumbles," he offered.
"So," Uhura interrupted, "are Kring and I going to check out the lower class or not?"
Chekov cleared his throat. "I think that is a productive course of action," he stated. "And, Mr. Paget, I will consider your suggestion. Both of them," he quickly added.
"Aye, sir," Paget responded. He crossed to the doorway, re-belting on his large machete. "Miss Uhn, I will escort you," he said in his best Klingon growl.
Uhura curtseyed. "My thanks," she replied.
"Take care of her," Chekov added as Paget opened the door. "She is very valuable to me."
"I'll just bet she is," Daffy muttered.
The seedier side of town was mostly bars, less-than-savory inns, and ramshackle stalls with really poor stocks of really poor goods. Uhura received any number of catcalls, whistles and propositions, which she fended off with sniffs of disdain. Jeremy did his best Klingon version of 'is this man botherin' you, ma'am?' which had the effect of rapidly emptying the near-by vicinity.
"We're not going to find out much if you scare away everyone who wants to talk," Uhura pointed out.
Paget frowned. "Yeah," he agreed. "But if you get into trouble, Master Chavask will never forgive me." He lowered his head to whisper in her ear. "Not to mention what Captain Kirk would say if he had to send down a rescue party."
"I can take care of myself," Uhura reminded. "Remember 'sorry, neither'?"
Jeremy chuckled. "So what do you suggest?"
"You go into that bar and demand torgoth ale or bloodwine or something equally disgusting," she replied. "I'll have a look at what passes for wares in the stalls and see if I can strike up a conversation with the sellers."
"Yes, Miss Uhn," Paget replied.
"I'll meet you in the bar in an hour or so, Kring," Uhura stated. "I want to see if there's anything worth haggling over." She waved her hand and turned from him.
Paget grunted, then strode off into the establishment she had indicated.
As she had suspected, there was little in the way of anything she'd actually want to spend her replicated Uradan coin on. Still, she made a show of haggling. Daffy would be so proud, she thought, hiding a grin. There was one poorly cut gem that was already priced ridiculously low, and another unevenly polished cabochon that she thought could be fashioned into a pendant. The man behind the stall's front table looked particularly pained as she talked him into lowering the price, and she felt a twinge of sympathy. He probably has a family to provide for, she mused. Still, it wouldn't be in her character to worry about that. She remembered the woman at the fountain, how breathtakingly pleased she was with the price of the cloth she'd purchased. She certainly hadn't been worried about how the merchant who sold it to her was making a living.
With an inward sigh, Uhura was about to wrap up her deal, when one of the men who had been most persistent about accosting her wandered up behind her.
"I see you got rid of that Klingon dog," he murmured. His breath stank and she turned her head with a grimace.
"Still not interested," she told him.
"I could change your mind," he leered. Images of her brief stay in the Empire alternate universe flashed into her mind. Her answer to the Imperial version of Sulu when he used that same line - "You are away from your post, Mister" - certainly wouldn't do her any good here.
She settled for "I doubt it," and returned her attention to the merchant.
The man grabbed her arm, roughly turning her around. "Or I could just take what I want," he growled, and reached for her breast.
Suddenly, she felt a large hand fall to her shoulder.
"Is this man botherin' you, Beauty?"
She spun around in sheer delight as the Uradan fell away from her.
"Tomor!" she cried.
The large Haven smiled at her as he removed the ever-present cigar of Rigellian from between his teeth. "Go away, little man," he said to the Uradan. Seedy as he was, the man didn't have to be told twice, but he was grumbling as he moved down the street.
"Not that I didn't think you could handle him," Tomor Rand assured Uhura.
"Rand was in the mood for a dramatic entrance," Lane Gage said as he stepped up to the now-embracing couple.
"Go away, little man," Uhura murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Rand chuckled.
"Is that any way to treat old friends?" Gage returned.
"Um... Miss?" the merchant interrupted warily. "Your purchase?"
Uhura was about to tell him she'd changed her mind, when Gage produced an amount of coin far more than she had haggled for.
"Will this cover it, my good man?" the Haven ambassador asked with a genial smile.
The merchant beamed and greedily grabbed at the coins. "Yes, kind Haven sir, all good business to you, kind Haven sir!" he enthused.
"Since when is he so generous?" Uhura whispered to Rand.
Tomor shrugged. "The Monolems want us to make a good impression," he answered. Glancing around, he added, "Where's the rest of the merry band?"
"I'm meeting our Klingon security guard at that bar," Uhura gestured.
Rand raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment.
"Come on," she said after taking the small cloth bag the merchant held out to her. She turned to Gage. "You too," she added.
"My, how gracious," Gage replied.
Paget stood at the bar, not drinking the second torgoth ale he had ordered. He had downed the first in one long gulp, true Klingon fashion, then had to devote himself to not vomiting it back up. The stuff was sour, thick, peppery and horrible.
The other patrons were glancing uneasily at him and after giving them all a cursory scowl, he scrutinized each one under the guise of ignoring them. His keen eye and Security training quickly assessed that there was no one potentially dangerous among them. He did note that one man kept trying to covertly scrutinize him, and so kept track of him. So it was that he saw the man quickly dart into a dark corner as Uhura entered the bar, along with Ambassador Lane Gage and his Enforcer, Tomor Rand.
"Gage, I'm parched," he heard her say. "Will you be so kind as to get us all something to drink?"
"Don't push it, Beauty," Gage replied in a murmur that Jeremy could just make out. More loudly he said, "Of course, my dear lady," and moved to the bar while Rand and Uhura took seats at a small booth along the outside wall.
Paget picked up his ale and started for the booth. He heard Gage's soft, amused, "Cobra," and sighed.
As he reached the booth, he growled, "What do you want with her, Haven?"
Rand looked up. It took him a moment longer than it had Gage for the Enforcer to recognize him.
"A friendly drink, Klingon," he returned with a nearly imperceptible wink.
"Uhn, is this..." Jeremy began.
"No, he's not, Kring," Uhura interrupted smoothly. "To prove it, why don't you join us?"
Paget grunted, and grabbed a chair from a nearby table, turning it so he could sit leaning his arms on its back rather than attempting to slide into the other side of the booth. They stared at each other until Gage came over with a small tray of drinks.
"The best they had to offer," he said, making a show of presenting the tray with a grand flourish. As he sat down opposite Uhura and Rand, he added, "I only pray Devri it's palatable."
Jeremy watched as Rand reached for a glass. He took a long swallow, then raised an eyebrow.
"Don't drink it," he advised.
Uhura shook her head as Gage fastidiously moved the glass nearest to him a little further away on the tray.
"We don't have a lot of time," Jeremy said as he leaned in to the booth. "We're on a clandestine mission - "
"Clearly," Gage interrupted. "Who knew you'd make such a handsome Klingon?"
" - and if you have any questions, contact the Enterprise," Paget finished as if the Haven hadn't spoken. "She's in orbit."
"Isn't that a little inefficient as we're here and you're here and you could tell us..." Gage began again.
"Contact the Enterprise," Jeremy said again.
"Surely an exchange of information would be beneficial to both..."
"Contact the Enterprise," was repeated a little more forcefully.
"Come now," Gage said companionably. "Beauty and Tomor can get a room, and no one will be the wiser...."
"Contact the Enterprise!" Paget almost hissed, but this time, Rand said it with him.
"I think the suggestion has merit..." Uhura put in.
"Sorry, Beauty," Rand said with an apologetic shrug. "The CEO says we have to play by Fed rules on this one." He stood. The chair on which Jeremy was sitting scraped against the floor as he also rose.
"Remind me to tell you I hate you," Uhura said to Paget as Gage said exactly the same thing to Rand.
Chekov drew in a deep breath. "Daphne…"
She narrowed her eyes. "What?"
He cleared his throat with a determined air. The two of them were still seated at the breakfast table on the terrace of their hotel room where Paget and Uhura had left them. "We have been tasked with a challenging assignment."
The chemist crossed her arms forbiddingly. "Yep."
"As experienced Star Fleet officers, our professionalism under these circumstances will be…"
"Oh, is this how you're going to play it?"
"Dafshka, really," he protested. "You put me in an impossible situation."
"So this is my fault?" she countered angrily.
"You seem determined to find a way to interpret this as being mine," he retorted in exasperation, pouring himself another glass of the local hot beverage that had a caffeinated quality. "Judging from your reactions someone would think I sat down and purposefully calculated the mission parameters so as to engineer titillating situations for myself."
"Oh, I can just picture you doing that, too," Gollub accused acidly, taking the carafe to refresh her own cup when he was done. "Little Mr. Research doing his homework and gaming out every smutty possibility…"
The Russian's mouth dropped open at the thought. "Daphne! Such a perversion of mission projection analytics would be…"
The chemist rolled her eyes. "Don't tell me you've never at all tempted."
"To use data on socio-cultural trending and encounter probability outcomes would not only be morally bankrupt and highly unethical…"
"What?" Gollub gave a dubious snort. "Don't tell me you've just never thought of it before?
"..Completely mad…" The Russian's beverage was still frozen on the way to his mouth. Suddenly his expression changed. An abstracted look claimed his features and his eyes begin to shift from side to side as if he were consulting an internal computation device. "But to the computer… really it is all actually only data… And it would be a fascinating project… Calculating all the necessary factors that would need to be anticipated… That is to say… speaking purely from a mathematical perspective… Hypothetically, of course…."
The chemist smirked. "Of course…"
"It would be fascinating project…" the navigator admitted distractedly. <>Gollub had to giggle despite herself. "I would pay good money to watch you and Spock sitting down to map out a campaign - 'Sair, if we assume that x equals a horny high priestess and y equals a mad super computer with a coefficient variable of pi over the square root of twinkle in the theoretical handsome Star Fleet captain's eye, factoring in the ship blowing up in two hours'…"
"Dafshka, really!" Chekov protested, horrified even more on behalf of the Vulcan's dignity than his own.
"You know," the chemist teased cruelly, "there was a run of landing parties where Bwana was getting laid pretty consistently…"
"You mustn't even joke about such things…"
Gollub shrugged. "Like you said, to the computer, it's just numbers…"
"Dafshka, no!"
"When we get back to the ship, I should poke around and see if there's a program somewhere in the archives…" The chemist tapped her lips thoughtfully. "See if there's any files with titles like "Cap'n Jimmy's Special Order Adventures" or something like…"
The Russian cleared his throat sternly and finally remembered to take the drink he had commenced. "Perhaps we should concentrate on the mission at hand…"
Gollub grinned. "Didn't think you would be saying that, did you?"
"Definitely not," Chekov confessed, and then drew in a deep breath again. "However, here we are."
"And your plan is to be professional and rely on your vast experience?" the chemist summarized helpfully.
The navigator set down his cup with a determined air. "Yes."
"Although most of your "experience" has turned out to be complete and utter disasters?"
"Uhm.. yes," the Russian admitted a good deal less confidently.
"So, what you're really saying is that you're going to try to keep the Russian equivalent of a stiff upper lip and hope for the best with whatever trainwreck occurs with these two local sluts and you'd like it if I don't yell at you?"
"That would be a fairly accurate encapsulation of the current situation. Yes."
Daffy took a moment, drumming her fingers lightly on the carved wood of the table as she weighed how frustrated she was with the current circumstances, what the outcome of an argument with the Russian at the moment would be, and how much good it might do. Picking a tactic, she rose from the table. "I'll bet you one hundred and fifty credits that I get more information out of mine than you get out of yours."
"Ugh…" Chekov groaned. "Why does it always have to be gambling with you?"
She grinned as she took a step towards the door. "You're thinking of cooking up a quick simulation and running it through the computer before they get here, aren't you?"
He replied with a shrug and a mischievous smile. "To a machine, it's only data, Dafshka."
The chemist put out her hand. "Deal?"
"And done."
The afternoon sun slanted through the towering stone archways of Central Square, casting knife-edged shadows across the cobblestones. What had been a bustling marketplace hours earlier now resembled a battlefield after the retreat—overturned crates, scattered debris, and the lingering scent of exotic spices and engine oil hanging in the air. Most traders had fled to count their profits or nurse their wounds from another day of cutthroat negotiations, but a few stubborn clusters remained, their voices echoing off the ancient walls in heated arguments about the trade war that had turned their orderly world into chaos.
Yameen Renalli stood like a scarred monument at the square's edge, his isolation as deliberate as it was painful. Even among the diverse crowd of off-world merchants, he was unmistakably alien—his compact, barrel-chested frame topped with a shock of orange hair that jutted from his scalp like rusted metal wires. His facial hair grew in geometric patterns that seemed to follow the contours of his broad features, marking him as distinctly Kelincarian. However, it wasn't merely his appearance that set him apart. An invisible barrier of failure surrounded the merchant like a toxic cloud.
His clothes told the story of his fall more eloquently than words ever could. The deep purple fabric of his robes had once been the finest Kelincarian silk, interwoven with glittering silver threads. Now those same threads hung loose and tarnished, the purple faded to the color of old bruises. The hem was frayed where it had been mended by hand. The ornate brass buttons that had once shone with mirror brightness were now dull and green with neglect. Every stitch wept the tale of a man clinging to the threads of his former status.
"Young fools!" The words erupted from him like steam from a pressure valve, his voice carrying the rolling, consonant-heavy accent of his homeworld. He gestured toward a group of merchants barely old enough to grow proper beards who were celebrating around a hovering display case filled with glittering gems. "Dancing on the graves of honest traders!"
Korvek materialized beside him like a nervous shadow, his round face glistening with perpetual sweat despite the cool afternoon air. The Uradan trader's association with Renalli had cost him dearly. Other merchants crossed to the opposite side of the square when they saw them together, as if they feared Renalli's misfortune might be contagious.
There was much gossip about this off-world trader who had come to Urada to re-build his ruined fortune. Renalli was aggressive - far too aggressive for the tastes of many of his peers. Lately he had become ferocious in his dealings. There were those who blamed him for the trade war. Some had heard him ranting to his friend Korvek about a hated competitor who might be behind the current instability. There were even those who suggested it was a systematic attempt to destabilize the legitimate trading networks that kept commerce flowing throughout the sector.
"Yameen, please," Korvek whispered, his eyes darting around the square like a hunted animal's. "The Trade Guild has many ears in this square. Every word you speak is heard. One wrong phrase and—"
"And what?" Renalli's laugh was bitter. "They'll destroy my reputation? Bankrupt my business? Drive me from my homeworld? As if I have not been through that before…" His voice rose with each word, drawing stares from across the square.
The smaller man flinched as if struck, but Renalli was beyond caring. The rage that had been fermenting in his chest for months was finally spilling over. He welcomed the acidic clarity this moment brought.
"I had the richest chitalia operation in three sectors!" he roared, his voice echoing off the ancient stones. "Do you understand what that means? The finest living gemstones in known space. I supplied the Orion Syndicate, the Deneb Trade Consortium, even the luxury markets of Andor. My stones were in the administrative scepter of the Tellarite Prime Minister!"
A crowd was gathering now, drawn by the raw intensity of his words like moths to a flame. Most kept their distance, forming a loose circle around the two men, but Renalli could see the mixture of fascination and alarm in their faces. They knew this story—all the merchants in the city did—but they'd never heard it told with such naked fury.
"Fifteen years," he continued, his voice dropping to a growl. "Fifteen years of sleeping in mining tunnels, of learning to read the planet's geological heartbeat, of earning the trust of the indigenous miners who could sense the living stones better than any scanner. I knew every vein, every deposit, every secret the mountains held."
When his hands clenched into fists, even his friend Korvek took an involuntary step backward.
"Then the Klingons came with their damned war machines." The words came out like a curse. "Strip-mining equipment that could tear through solid rock like paper. They called it 'resource extraction optimization'—pretty words for rape and pillage. They didn't care about the chitalia, you see. They were after the moritite deposits beneath them."
One of the younger traders, a freckled-faced fellow with more courage than sense, spoke up. "But surely environmental protection laws—"
Renalli's sharp laugh cut him. "Laws? For the likes of them? Trolls, my people called them. Demons, they were." His voice took on a mocking tone. "Very efficient, they said. Why spend years carefully extracting precious stones when you can just blow up the entire mountain?"
The crowd was growing larger now, and Renalli could see the hunger in their eyes—the same hunger that drew beings to watch gladiatorial contests or hover-car crashes.
"They poisoned everything," he whispered. "The groundwater turned black with industrial chemicals. The soil became toxic sludge. Even the air around the mining sites glowed with radiation. And the chitalia..." His voice cracked with genuine grief. "You can't clean corruption from a living stone. Once they're tainted, they die. The color fades, the inner light goes out, and they crumble to worthless dust."
Korvek made a desperate gesture for silence, but Renalli was lost in his memories now, his eyes fixed on something far beyond the square.
"Six months," he said. "Six months was all it took to destroy three centuries of careful cultivation. Every stone in my inventory became worthless overnight."
"But you could have started over," suggested a senior trader with the naive optimism. "Found new sources, rebuilt your operation—"
"With what?" Renalli snarled, rounding on the speaker with such fury that the trader actually stepped backward. "Do you have any conception of how rare pure chitalia deposits are? They only form under specific geological conditions that occur perhaps once in a million years. The mines on Kelincar were the only known source in the sector."
He paused, his expression darkening like a storm cloud.
"Or so we thought." The words dripped with venom. "Until Pasol Chavask strolled into the capitol city with the purest stones anyone had seen in a generation."
Korvek's face went pale, and he grabbed Renalli's arm. "Don't," he whispered urgently. "Not here. Not like this."
Renalli shook him off like an annoying insect. The crowd was pressed closer now.
"Remarkable timing, wouldn't you say?" The merchant's voice was silky with malice. "While honest miners were being destroyed by Klingon 'efficiency,' Master Chavask was somehow able to produce an unlimited supply of chitalia of the highest quality. We had to flee for our lives, but Chavask? He travels about like a prince with a troll bodyguard trotting at his heels."
The accusations hung in the air like a poison gas. These traders understood the mathematics of profit and loss, of opportunity and betrayal. They could read between the lines of his story.
"You're suggesting he knew," said a grey-haired merchant in a voice hushed by shock. "That he had advance warning of the Klingon invasion?"
"I'm not suggesting anything," Renalli replied with a ghastly smile. "I'm stating facts. While the rest of us were caught completely off-guard, Chavask was prepared. While we were scrambling to save what we could, he was positioning himself to profit from our destruction. While we were losing everything, that <>carachachino -loving traitor was striking deals with the very blood-sucking ghouls who destroyed us."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd like electricity. Renalli's rant was more than sour grapes of a failed competitor —this was a direct accusation of collaboration with an enemy force. In the merchant community, such charges could destroy a trader's reputation across half the galaxy.
"I lost everything," the Kelincarian continued, his voice beginning to shake with the weight of his grief. "My business, my reputation, my home. That wasn't enough for them, though. After Chavask disappeared with his hoard of stones, the warlord Teclum went insane with paranoia. He became convinced that the surviving chitalia traders were hiding secret caches -- that we were lying about the contamination to drive up prices."
His voice dropped to a harsh whisper.
"He had us hunted like animals. Tortured for information we didn't possess. Killed for crimes we didn't commit. I watched friends—good, honest merchants—dragged from their homes and butchered in the streets. I had to abandon everything and run, just to keep breathing."
The crowd was completely silent now, hanging on his every word.
"My daughter was to be married—did you know that?" he said, his voice breaking with a more tender emotion. "A good match, to the son of the high minister. When we came to Urada she had to work as a clerk in a freight office while I re-established my business."
Traders exchanged glances, genuinely moved.
"All her dreams, all her hopes for the future—destroyed by Klingon greed and Chavask's betrayal." Renalli roughly wiped a tear from his cheek. "She doesn't even speak to me anymore. Can't bear to look at the man who cost her everything."
He straightened. When he spoke again his voice was steady and cold.
"And now the bastard dares to show his face on Urada…" the Kelincarian growled. "Prances through this very square with his Klingon bodyguard, flaunting his stolen wealth while the rest of us scrape for table scraps."
Korvek was backing away now, clearly terrified of what his friend might say next. Renalli was beyond caring about consequences, though.
"Well," he said, his smile a lethal baring of teeth, "perhaps it's time someone reminded Master Chavask that the universe believes in balance. Every action has consequences. Some debts can be paid only in blood."
The crowd erupted in excited whispers. Renalli, however, was already walking away, his frayed robes billowing behind him like a ragged cloud.
"What are you planning?" Korvek called after him.
"Justice," he replied, his voice carrying across the square like a promise of thunder. "Justice long delayed."