Return to Valjiir Stories
Return to Valjiir Continnum
The Trader's Guild Hall loomed like a monumental stone celebration of commercial ambition in Nazanin's Financial District. Its walls of honey-colored stone stretched three stories high, crowned with stained glass windows that cast jewel-toned light across the main dining hall. Within, gorgeously crafted murals depicted Urada's rise from backwater mining colony to a prosperous trade hub. In vibrant colors, artists had lovingly depicted scenes of merchant ships laden with exotic goods along side of images of the momentous handshake deals that shaped the planet’s destiny. From the center of all these glowing depictions, likenesses of the Guild's founders shone in bright hues as they counted their profits with beatific smiles.
The hall's horseshoe arrangement of polished kemal wood tables focused all attention on the raised dais where Master Korvus Aldenn held court. Fifty of Nazanin's most successful traders filled the seats, their voices creating a low hum of commercial gossip that echoed off the vaulted ceiling like the drone of industrious insects.
At the head table, Master Aldenn commanded attention through sheer physical presence. His considerable bulk strained against burgundy velvet robes that must have cost the equivalent of an average city dweller’s yearly wage. Gold thread traced elaborate patterns across the fabric—stylized trade routes connecting distant worlds. Each stitch was a celebration of the Guild's far-reaching influence. His mustache, waxed to points that curved upward like twin crescents, quivered as he gestured toward his guest of honor.
"Distinguished traders of Urada," Aldenn's voice boomed across the hall, "today we are graced by the ineffable presence of one of the Haven Trading Empire's most illustrious Dealers Extraordinaire—Captain Lane Gage of the merchant vessel Leather!"
Polite applause rippled through the assembled merchants.
Lane Gage acknowledged the tribute with the barest inclination of his head. Everything about the Haven suggested lethal competence wrapped in civilized refinement—from his perfectly tailored black leather jacket to the way his long dark hair was pulled back in a stylish knot. His stillness held the quality of a panther conserving energy before a kill. His dark eyes, however, already showed the glassy sheen of dangerous levels of boredom.
The real threat in the room stood behind Gage's chair. Tomor Rand's massive frame made the other merchants unconsciously shift away, creating a bubble of nervous space around the head table. His black-on-black eyes swept the room in methodical patterns that inventoried exits, weapons, and potential threats with an almost mechanical ease. His jaw was locked in a hard line that spoke of barely contained irritation.
The tension between Haven employer and employee was palpable.
"Captain Gage," gushed Bello Viran, a stick-thin merchant whose eagerness reminded Gage of a starving bilge rat, "we've heard such remarkable stories about Haven business acumen. Perhaps you could share some insights about negotiation techniques?"
Gage lifted his wine glass — an imported, but thoroughly pedestrian Terran vintage that Aldenn had announced with the pride of a collector displaying a case of Teribian Thousand-year Dew-berry Mead. The pause stretched just long enough to make Viran squirm before Gage responded. "Negotiation is quite simple, actually. Know what you want. Know what the other party wants. Know which one of you needs the deal more." His tone carried the casual indifference of someone explaining basic arithmetic to children. "Most beings make it far more complicated than necessary."
The underlying message hung in the air as clearly as if it had been written there with a marker: You provincials need to hear this lesson far more than I need to give it voice.
"Fascinating!" Master Jorik Thann's rings flashed as he gestured, the precious stones catching the light. "And what about the legendary Haven memory for contracts? Is it true you never forget the exact wording of a deal?"
Gage's smile was all teeth and no warmth. "We remember what matters. Details that most races consider... negotiable... we consider binding."
The word 'negotiable' carried enough contempt to frost the wine glasses.
Master Aldenn chuckled. "Of course, of course! Haven precision is legendary throughout the sector." He signaled frantically for servers to bring the next course—roasted kellan bird drowning in niran sauce, another expensive import chosen specifically to demonstrate the Guild's prosperity to their distinguished guest.
Gage glanced at the steaming monstrosity placed before him, then turned slightly toward his stone-faced bodyguard. In the mellifluous tones of Havani Common Tongue—a language as exclusive to his people as their black eyes and predatory grace—he delivered his verdict: "If I have to stare at that damned tapestry for much longer, I am going to take it down and use it to garrote someone... preferably the chef who glued together this petrified sawdust sculpture and had the audacity to call it food."
The tapestry in question dominated the wall behind the dais. It was a rather garish monstrosity depicting Urada's patron saint of commerce and a caravan of merchants meeting the first delegation of Haven traders to reach the planet. The saint's face bore an unfortunate resemblance to a constipated kellan. The cohort of merchants looked like they were either on the verge of sexual ecstasy or engaged in very enthusiastic song.
Tomor's only response was a slight tightening around the corners of his mouth.
Master Vek Morann, blissfully unaware of the Haven's commentary, launched into a rambling anecdote. "...and when I realized the Denebians preferred the blue fabric to the green, I immediately adjusted my offer. I thought to myself, 'What would a Haven do?' And the profit margin increased by thirty percent!"
Gage's fingers drummed once against the polished table—a single tap that somehow conveyed volumes of disdain.
"How... resourceful," he said, managing to make the compliment sound like an insult.
Denna Pallas, one of the few female merchants present and clearly the sharpest mind at the table, cut through the sycophantic babble. "Captain Gage, we've heard whispers about this trade war affecting our markets. Surely someone of your experience could offer guidance on how to navigate such... turbulent times?"
The question landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples of tension across the assembled faces. Gage set down his fork with deliberate care. When he looked directly at Pallas, his expression held the kind of focused attention that could make small animals freeze in place.
"Trade wars are generally the result of someone not understanding the fundamental principle of mutual profit. When parties focus on destroying rather than creating value, everyone loses." His voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. "Though some lose more spectacularly than others."
The warning was clear enough to read from orbit.
Master Aldenn's desperate attempt to change the subject came out as a strangled yelp. "The weather has been so turbulent recently, hasn't it? Amazing the impact that a simple thing like weather can have on the markets!"
"Kill me now," Gage begged his bodyguard quietly in liquid Havani. "Of course, if I keep staring at that abomination of a tapestry, my eyes may fall out and I may mercifully bleed to death within the hour... I suppose I should just be glad it's not literally a picture of them all lining up to kiss Omm Monolem's wrinkled ass... No, that might bear witness to the presence of a bit of wit... And there's certainly not an abundance of that quality in evidence."
Tomor maintained his position behind Gage's chair like a statue carved from living stone. His silence had a deliberate weight to it—the kind of pointed stillness that spoke louder than any accusation.
Finally, as a particularly obsequious merchant began describing his "Haven-inspired" negotiation philosophy, Gage's patience snapped. He turned slightly in his chair, his voice carrying an edge of exasperation. "Just how long are you planning to pout?"
Tomor's jaw could have been carved from granite. His eyes remained fixed on some distant point, as if Gage had simply ceased to exist.
"I thought I was being perfectly lovely to Kirk's children. I bought Uhura that jewel, paid everyone's tab at the bar...” Gage sniffed defensively. “Blame for this situation should not rest with me."
The silence stretched like a taut wire ready to snap.
Gage sighed and turned back to his increasingly curious audience. The merchants had been watching this exchange with the fascination of spectators at a blood sport—not understanding the words but reading the body language avidly.
"My associate is evaluating your security arrangements," Gage lied with the smooth confidence. "Haven practice requires constant vigilance."
"Of course!" Aldenn's relief was palpable. "Though I assure you, Nazanin is quite safe. We haven't had a serious incident in months!"
That you know of, Tomor's expression seemed to say, though he remained stubbornly silent.
As servers placed the dessert course — candied vala fruits arranged like tiny emeralds on crystal plates a confection that was probably as costly to serve on this planet as the real jewels might be — a conversation from a nearby table drifted into Gage's awareness.
"...my cousin in the harbor district swears he saw him yesterday," one merchant was whispering with the intensity of a conspiracy theorist.
"Pasol Chavask? Here in Nazanin?" His companion leaned forward. "Are you certain?"
"Three different sources have confirmed it that this is the one Renalli spoke of. The Great Merchant himself, staying at the Golden Niran Inn with his wife and retinue."
"But I thought he disappeared after that business on Kelincar..."
"Apparently not. Word is he's been traveling the outer systems, building his legend. They say he's here investigating some kind of trading opportunity."
"The same Pasol Chavask who outwitted the Kalee himself?"
"The very same. Can you imagine? Here in our city!"
Gage's wine glass froze halfway to his lips. For the first time all afternoon, a genuine smile began to spread across his features.
"Now there's an idea," he murmured in Havani.
Behind him, Tomor's first sound in over an hour emerged as a low growl. "You know I hate it when you get ideas, Boss."
Gage's smile widened, showing teeth. "Oh, I think you might like this one."
For the first time since they'd arrived at this tedious gathering, Tomor's stone facade fractured. One dubious eyebrow rose.
Gage turned back to Master Aldenn, who had been pontificating about the superiority of Uradan vala fruits over inferior Antaran imports.
"Master Aldenn," he interrupted, "I couldn't help but overhear your colleagues discussing a visiting merchant—someone called Pasol Chavask?"
The effect was instantaneous and devastating. Every conversation at the table died as if someone had thrown a switch. Forks paused midway to mouths. Wine glasses hung suspended in air. Even the servants froze like statues. Master Aldenn's face cycled through several interesting colors before settling on a pale shade of awe. "You... you know of Master Chavask?" he breathed, as if speaking the name of a religious figure.
"Know of him?" Gage's chuckle held the dangerous amusement of a cat toying with a mouse. "My dear Master Aldenn, I had the distinct pleasure of witnessing Pasol Chavask's famous victory over the Kalee of Kelincar. A most... educational experience."
The merchants leaned forward as one organism. Here was proximity to legend. They hungered to feast on every detail.
"He's really here?" Master Thann's voice cracked like an adolescent's. "In Nazanin?"
"Oh yes," Gage confirmed, his smile now wide enough to show molars. "At the Golden Niran, I believe you said?" He glanced meaningfully at the gossiping merchants, who nodded with the enthusiasm of disciples confirming a miracle.
Behind him, Tomor's voice carried the weight of long experience and justified paranoia. "What in Saford’s hell is this scheme?"
Gage's response rippled with satisfaction. "Perhaps a little lesson for Kirk’s children on the value of cooperation."
The keenness of the smile that accompanied these words made several merchants unconsciously lean back in their chairs.
Master Aldenn's transformation was spectacular to witness. His face had gone through the complete spectrum of emotion before settling on something approaching the transports of ecstasy. "Captain Gage, if you know the Great Pasol Chavask personally, surely... surely we must arrange a proper reception! A ball! It would be the honor of a lifetime!"
"A fascinating idea," Gage mused, swirling his wine. "Though, I should warn you, Pasol is a very particular man. He appreciates... proper recognition of his achievements. Nothing too modest, you understand."
"Of course not!" Aldenn practically vibrated with excitement, his mustache points quivering like tuning forks. "The finest hall! The best musicians! Food imported from all over the sector!"
"And you'll want to invite all the prominent traders," Gage insisted solicitously. "Pasol enjoys an audience for his stories. Particularly tales of his encounters with... various interesting parties."
Behind him, Tomor shifted slightly—a subtle signal that spoke of dawning understanding. For the first time all afternoon, something approaching anticipation flickered in his expression.
"Beauty will be there?" he asked in Havani, his voice carrying the first hint of approval since they'd arrived.
Gage's triumphant response carried the satisfaction of a master chess player announcing checkmate. "I told you that you would like this one."
The Golden Niran's luxury suite was a testament to Urada's peculiar relationship with the galaxy beyond its borders. Ancient stone walls bore Vulcan crystal sconces that cast ethereal light across hand-hewn timber-beams, while a Denebian holographic art piece flickered silently above a medieval-style fireplace. Through the ornate ironwork balcony, the chaotic symphony of Nazanin's streets drifted upward—hover-car engines sputtering alongside the clip-clop of draft animals, some pulling actual carts cobbled together from the gutted shells of broken speeders.
This was Urada in miniature. It was a world caught between eras, desperate to display its cosmopolitan sophistication while clinging to provincial traditions. The wealthy collected off-world trinkets like trophies, despite the fact that they only half-understood their purposes. By the time these exotic devices filtered down to the poor, they'd been repurposed in ways their original creators never imagined.
Lieutenant Daphne Gollub unwittingly embodied this contradiction perfectly in her role as Dasha Chavask. Her medieval-style gown was cloth-of-gold, its deep V-neckline and tightly cinched bodice speaking to wealth while its full skirt whispered of older, more modest times. Jeweled chains cascaded from her throat and wrists—the sort of ostentatious display expected of a successful merchant's wife. Her expression, however, was pure 23rd-century Starfleet officer -- calculating, frustrated, and increasingly annoyed.
She glared at the items arrayed before her on the polished wood table, each one a weapon in the psychological warfare she and Pavel had agreed to wage against the innkeeper's insufferable children. The "Trouble Twins," as the team had dubbed them, had been hovering around the Enterprise crew since their arrival, their transparent attempts at currying favor threatening to blow their cover. The solution that she and Chekov had agreed upon of divide and conquer, with each officer assigned to pump one twin for information, had seemed logical until pride and jealousy had turned their contest into something that promised to lead to more problems that it might solve.
The door's heavy iron latch clicked. Lieutenant Commander Pavel Chekov entered, his own transformation equally complete. Gone was the boyish navigator with his distinctive bangs. In his place stood Pasol Chavask, successful gem merchant from the Vebron region of Kelincar. His dark hair was slicked back severely. The neat goatee framing his mouth added years to his face. His blue and gold belted tunic spoke of understated wealth, the kind that didn't need to shout its prosperity.
"Are you back from the market already?" he asked, blinking in surprise at finding her there.
"I didn't realize you'd left," Gollub snapped. "You've been huddled with your precious computer all morning. Are those flowers for her?"
Pavel's gaze dropped to the bouquet in his hands—delicate pansy-like blooms in shades of purple, magenta, and white, their alien petals catching the crystalline light. "For my tricorder?"
A smile twitched at the chemist’s lips. "Bubbeleh, that is soooo frighteningly plausible..."
Chekov's eyes rolled heavenward as he moved to the table, setting down an ornate marble-like box beside the flowers and a wrapped package. "My research indicates these gifts have the highest probability of winning the confidence of a young woman of Miss Sanzint's age."
"Flowers?" the chemist asked dubiously.
"Very beautiful," Chekov confirmed with a complete lack of humility, settling into the chair across from her with the satisfied air of a man confident in his strategy.
Gollub lifted the box's lid, revealing a bracelet and ring set with stones that made her wince. The chitalia gems were an assault on the retinas—garish green shot through with blood-red veins. "Eew... chitalia."
"I am posing as a wealthy merchant," the Russian defended, snatching the box back with wounded dignity. "This specific stone is what my cover identity is known for."
The third package rustled as the chemist lifted it by its ribbon ties. "And... a book?"
Chekov's finger wagged with pedagogical enthusiasm. "Highly recommended to inspire confidence -- in the ninety-sixth percentile."
"Feast, Meditate, Adore," Gollub read the title like she was pronouncing a dread disease.
"It is a work of fiction," the Russian explained proudly. "Extremely popular with her demographic."
"And the perfect weight to brain a certain schlemiel," the chemist muttered, hefting the volume experimentally.
Chekov's chin lifted in challenge. "What about you? Have you made no plans at all?"
"Of course I have." The chemist gestured to her own arsenal -- a bottle of wine that caught the light like liquid amber, and a small wooden box that gave off the faint, sweet scent of exotic tobacco. "Wine. Smokes."
"Oh, Daphne!" the navigator admonished. "Really!"
"Very popular with his age bracket," she shot back. "I'm sure your sweetheart the computer will concur."
Chekov sighed deeply. "I know this method of intelligence gathering aligns with our assumed personas, but it seems..." Another sigh, deeper this time. "...unbecoming behavior for Starfleet officers."
"You're just afraid I'm going to win our bet." Gollub's smirk was unrepentant.
The Russian's attention snagged on a small glass jar near her elbow, its contents an unsettling shade of green that seemed to shift in the light. "What is that?"
"Oh, that? Beauty cream."
"Daphne, that is a completely irrational purchase..." the navigator began in his most condescending tone, then caught himself as he realized he was stepping into a minefield. He course-corrected with a nervous laugh. "Because you are already so very beautiful."
Gollub's silence was deafening. She folded her arms and fixed him with a cold stare.
"What?" The Russian's laugh became increasingly strained. "What?"
Her eyes narrowed to slits. "I want to see if you'll physically explode if you don't say, 'But as a chemist, you know that such compounds are a ridiculous fraud.'"
"No, no," Chekov protested, his hands up in surrender. "I would never insult your intelligence by saying..."
Gollub began a silent countdown, her lips moving slightly. Five... four... three... two...
The navigator’s scientific integrity finally overwhelmed his self-preservation instinct. "But you do know that, don't you, Dafshka?" he asked as gently as possible.
The smack to the back of his head was swift and satisfying.
"But it's such an unusual color!" Chekov protested, rubbing his skull. "And the texture... that seems odd..."
"A funny color it should be." Gollub held the jar up to the light, where its contents seemed to pulse with their own inner radiance. "You'd be a funny color too if you were made with moritite."
Chekov’s face went pale. "Moritite? Isn't that a Federation restricted substance? Can't it be used to manufacture explosives?"
"In a pinch," the chemist agreed casually.
"That seems like an unusual ingredient for a beauty preparation..."
Gollub's shrug was pure nonchalance. "Not if you want to enter a room with a bang."
A thunderous knock at the door cut through their banter. Both officers tensed.
When Pavel opened the heavy wooden door, Dafuv Sanzint practically exploded into the room. The innkeeper was a large, florid man whose excitement had turned his face the color of Rigellian wine. Sweat beaded on his broad forehead despite the cool morning air.
"Master Chavask!" he gasped, as if he'd run up several flights of stairs. "I have the most wondrous, the most magnificent news!"
He thrust a gilt-edged parchment scroll at Chekov with the reverence of a man presenting a religious relic.
"The greatest of honors has been bestowed upon you, my dear Master!" Sanzint crowded close enough that Pavel could smell the man's breakfast on his breath, apparently considering personal space as foreign a concept as privacy. His eyes tracked across the ornate calligraphy as he read along with Chekov, his lips moving silently.
The invitation was a masterpiece of formal excess. Guild Master Korvus Aldenn requested "the honor of Master Pasol Chavask and his household" at a grand ball, the elegant script flowing across parchment so fine it was nearly translucent, highlighted with actual gold leaf.
"Such an honor!" Sanzint gushed, his hands fluttering like agitated birds. "The invitation arrived moments ago, delivered by one of Master Aldenn's own servants! What distinction for my humble establishment—and for you, dear sir!"
Pavel struggled to maintain his character's aloof dignity while his mind raced to process this development. "Of course," he replied, his tone carefully modulated to suggest that such invitations were routine.
"If I might be so bold, sir?" Sanzint's voice carried the wheedling tone of a man about to make a pitch.
"Yes?"
"This invitation — it's quite sudden." The innkeeper's gestures became increasingly theatrical, encompassing the entire room. "Your preparations—the dignity expected at the Guildhall..."
Chekov stared at him blankly. "Yes?"
Disappointment flickered across Sanzint's features as his hints fell on apparently deaf ears. "Well, sir... you'll need to expand your retinue for such an occasion, won't you?"
As understanding dawned, the Russian drew in a careful breath. "You have a suggestion."
"My dear son and daughter." Sanzint's smile was a tour de force of false humility, his eyes gleaming with avarice. "It would be such an improving experience for them. They are so eager to serve, so willing to learn—you'll admit they've shown remarkable... enthusiasm."
"Oh, readily," the Russian agreed dryly. The twins' "enthusiasm" had been impossible to ignore—or escape. After a moment's consideration, drawing on his research into local customs, he nodded reluctantly. "Yes, that arrangement will be satisfactory. I'll be pleased to offer them temporary positions for this occasion."
Sanzint's beamed as brightly as the mid-day sun as he bowed his way backward toward the door. "A thousand thanks, dear Master Chavask! Such generosity! And my heartiest congratulations!"
The door's heavy thud seemed to echo in the sudden silence. Gollub immediately crossed to Pavel's side, both of them studying the gilt scroll.
"Oy vey," she breathed. "How did we rate this meshuggeneh?"
"Apparently our efforts to establish my reputation exceeded expectations," Pavel murmured, his fingers tracing the expensive parchment. His gaze shifted to the carefully selected gifts on the table. "Well, this invitation renders our subterfuge with the twins unnecessary."
"How so?"
"Under local custom, employees are obligated to share information with their employers. We simply need to determine if they're lying to us."
Daphne's eyebrow arched skeptically. "Oh, like that's going to be the easy part."
The door's latch clicked again, and Uhura stepped through, closely followed by Jeremy Paget. They carried the dust and energy of Nazanin's morning markets, their faces bearing the particular exhaustion that came from hours of careful information gathering among suspicious strangers.
"What the hell is going on?" Paget demanded, his voice still carrying Klingon gruffness as his eyes swept the room for potential dangers.
"Why is Sanzint congratulating us all of a sudden?" Uhura asked, gesturing toward the door where the innkeeper's excited voice could still be heard echoing down the corridor.
Gollub's grin was pure mischief as she brandished the gilt scroll like a trophy. "Look, kids! We're going to a ball!"
"The usual crowd," Rev Marken observed, his scarred hands resting on the marble balustrade as he surveyed the gathering below. "After we've talked to our contact, we can leave."
The Guild Hall rose above the city of Nazanin like a shrine to cosmic greed — a cathedral built by dead craftsmen now crowned with crystal chandeliers worth more than most worlds' annual budgets. Each of the twelve Rigellian singing crystals cast fractured rainbows across blood-red marble floors, as if the building itself wept light. Ancient columns supported impossible wealth. The structure was a medieval skeleton dressed in the plundered treasures of a dozen conquered civilizations.
By evening's peak, over two hundred souls had gathered in carefully segregated tribes. Local merchant families clustered like frightened sheep, their silk and brocade broadcasting wealth while their whispered conversations revealed the crude mathematics of survival—shipping manifests and profit margins spoken like prayers to distant gods. The minor Uradan nobility drifted through the crowd with near ghostly charm, their hereditary weapons and ancestral jewelry marking bloodlines that predated their world's integration into the galactic meat grinder of commerce.
Independent traders — the galaxy's true survivors — wore clothing that married functionality with expense, their success measured not in ostentation but in the hard currency of staying alive in a universe that devoured the weak. Also in the mix were the desperate ones -- social climbers, failed merchants, information brokers. These bottom feeders swam through the swirling currents of wine and merriment on the hunt for any opportunities that cruel fortune might let drift their way.
A handful of Haven traders stood apart from this provincial theater like sleek predators among grazing animals. Their black leather seemed to devour light itself, and they moved with the casual confidence of beings who had survived clan wars that turned entire star systems into radioactive graveyards. The other guests unconsciously created buffer zones around them — not from conscious fear, but from the cellular recognition of a species that played by rules written in blood.
High above on the second-story balcony, two such predators watched the proceedings with the patience of skilled marksmen. Gol Tarilon leaned against the marble railing with studied nonchalance.
His bodyguard, Rev Marken, stood deeper in the shadows. Every line of his compact frame was a restrained threat. His dark eyes never stopped moving. The bulge under his left armpit wasn’t concealed so much as displayed — a warning to anyone foolish enough to approach his employer without invitation.
"Any idea who tonight's guest of honor is?" Tarilon asked, nodding dismissively toward the ornate dais reserved for the evening's celebrity.
"Some Kelincarian trader." Marken shrugged, his attention never wavering from the crowd below.
"Oh, joy." Tarilon's lips curved in pale parody of amusement. "Will we be able to stand the thrill?"
Near the refreshment tables, Yameen Renalli embodied everything the Guild Ball pretended not to see—failure in a room dedicated to success, a walking reminder that the galaxy's economic machine consumed lives as fuel for its operation.
His face carried the deep lines of a man who had watched his world collapse one betrayal at a time. Even among the diverse crowd of off-world merchants, Renalli was unmistakably alien. His barrel-chested frame was topped with hair like oxidized copper wire, and his facial hair grew in the geometric patterns that marked him as distinctly Kelincarian.
It wasn't his appearance that isolated him. It was the invisible barrier of failure that surrounded him like a quarantine field, making other guests unconsciously step aside when he approached. His eyes burned with the particular fury of a man who had lost everything and knew exactly whose throat deserved his hands.
Master Korvus Aldenn positioned himself at the grand entranceway like a conductor preparing for the performance of his lifetime. His gold-trimmed robes strained against his considerable bulk. His elaborate facial hair—a waxed mustache and pointed beard decorated with tiny gems—quivered with barely contained excitement. This was his moment to elevate his social standing by association with genuine greatness and he intended to squeeze every drop of reflected glory from the evening.
When the Enterprise team entered in their carefully constructed disguises, a hush rippled through the immediate vicinity like the shocked silence that follows an explosion.
Pavel Chekov, transformed into the legendary Pasol Chavask, cut a figure that might make his Starfleet colleagues faint from surprise. The blue and gold tunic caught the chandelier light, while his carefully cultivated goatee and slicked-back hair gave him the dangerous sophistication of a man who had survived encounters that would shatter lesser traders. Every gesture had been rehearsed to perfection—the adjustment of cuffs, the subtle swagger that suggested confidence born of genuine accomplishment rather than desperate performance.
Daphne Gollub, playing his wife Dasha, was stunning in her medieval-inspired gold gown. The tightly cinched bodice and flowing skirt created a silhouette that drew appreciative glances. Her jewelry caught the light and scattered tiny rainbows across her décolletage like captured stars. She carried herself with the calculated arrogance of a successful trader's wife—someone accustomed to being envied and intelligent enough to savor every moment of it.
Uhura, in the role of freed bond servant Uhn, followed at a distance that marked her as property now elevated to near-family status. Her simple dark blue dress was a deliberate contrast that somehow made her natural elegance even more apparent—like a perfectly cut diamond displayed against rough cloth. Her posture spoke of someone who served by choice rather than compulsion, a subtle distinction that didn't escape those who dealt in human commodities.
Jeremy Paget, as the renegade Klingon bodyguard Kring, brought up the rear with feral alertness. His hand never strayed far from his weapon, his eyes constantly scanning for threats with the professional paranoia of someone who had kept his employers alive through more assassination attempts than most people had nightmares.
Trailing behind came Savati and Sari Sanzint, the nineteen and twenty-year-old offspring of their innkeeper. The Enterprise team had privately dubbed them "The Trouble Twins" for their relentless attempts to insert themselves into their guests' business—behavior that threatened their carefully constructed cover identities like termites in an old wooden sea-faring vessel's hull. Tonight, their father had maneuvered them into positions as temporary retainers, dressed in colors that coordinated with Pasol Chavask's. The twins proudly sported jewelry featuring the garish green and red-veined chitalia — the rare precious stone that formed the foundation of Chavask's legendary reputation.
Master Aldenn clapped his hands for attention, his rings creating a musical chiming that sliced through conversation like a dinner bell.
"Distinguished guests! Fellow merchants! Noble traders all!" His voice boomed across the ballroom, echoing off marble surfaces with the resonance of a trained performer. "Tonight we have the extraordinary honor of hosting a living legend—a man whose exploits have become the stuff of trading floor folklore from here to the Neutral Zone!"
The crowd drew closer, curiosity overcoming social convention. In the galaxy's trading community, reputation was currency more valuable than dilithium crystals. One could feel the happy buzz in the air as traders pressed forward to meet someone whose name they believed could open doors that armies couldn't breach.
"I present to you the Great Pasol Chavask!" Aldenn's voice rose to an almost operatic pitch, his arms spread wide like a ringmaster introducing the main act. "The man who outwitted the Kalee of Kelincar! Who discovered pure chitalia deposits where others found only poison! Who gave the Haven traders themselves a lesson in negotiation! Master Chavask!"
Rapturous applause filled the hall, building to a crescendo that made the crystal chandeliers sing in harmonic resonance.
Chekov was momentarily too dazzled by the unexpected flamboyance of this introduction to respond. However, prompted by prods in his side from his "wife" and a gentle nudge from Uhura, he stepped forward with the perfect mixture of humility and confidence—every inch the successful merchant acknowledging his peers while remaining appropriately modest. He bowed to the assembly with movements that were carefully controlled, each gesture calculated to reinforce his cover identity while projecting the kind of quiet competence that marks truly successful traders.
"Please, Master Chavask," Aldenn said, gesturing toward an eager group of merchants. "Share with us the wisdom of your experiences."
The Russian once more was hit by a wave of crushing stage fright. However, his "wife" unwrapped her arm from his with theatrical reluctance and his "servant" gave him a little push forward as they and his bodyguard disperse to work the room—each with their own intelligence-gathering mission. Chekov steeled his resolve, mentally flipped through his copious research, plastered a pleasant expression on his face, and moved forward with Aldenn.
The Russian was able to deflect most direct questions from the assembled traders with stock phrases from his briefing material such as "Fortune favors the prepared mind" and "A good trader knows when to listen more than speak," while carefully probing for information about local trade conditions—particularly the "rogue traders" who seem to be disrupting established markets with impossible pricing.
One silver-haired Uradan merchant leaned in conspiratorially. "Tell me, Master Chavask, in your dealings with the Kalee, did you find the Kelincar nobles to be... shall we say, flexible in their interpretation of contracts?"
Chekov nodded gravely, channeling every diplomatic briefing he's ever attended. "In my experience, all successful negotiations require understanding what each party truly values. Sometimes that is not what they claim to value publicly."
"Wise words," another merchant interjected, his eyes bright with the fever of someone who's found a kindred spirit. "We could use such wisdom here. These rogue traders have no understanding of traditional values—they sell below cost, destroy market stability, ignore established territorial agreements..."
"Below cost?" Chekov's eyebrows rose. "That suggests either desperate foolishness or..." He let the implication hang in the air like smoke, inviting them to draw their own conclusions.
"Exactly!" The first merchant's eyes gleamed with vindication. "No honest trader operates at a loss for long. There must be some other source of profit — subsidies, stolen goods, protection money..."
Across the room, Gollub worked the crowd of merchants' wives and daughters with methodical care. Using her expertise as a chemist, she cataloged details that might prove useful later — sampling the local wine and noting its alcohol content and the subtle additives that enhance both flavor and inhibition, examining jewelry and fabric to calculate trade values and origins, engaging in the kind of seemingly innocent gossip that reveals social hierarchies and business relationships.
"Such a lovely gown," gushed the wife of a textile merchant, her eyes bright with competitive assessment and barely concealed envy. "The gold threading — is it authentic Rigellian work?"
"Naturally," Gollub replied with Dasha's characteristic slight arrogance, the tone of someone accustomed to quality and scornful of those who can't afford it. "My husband believes in investing in the best. Unlike some traders we've encountered who seem to think quantity compensates for poor craftsmanship."
"Oh, you've met them too!" The woman's eyes lit up with the joy of shared complaint. "These new merchants with their impossibly low prices — my husband says they're ruining the market for everyone respectable."
"New merchants?" Gollub probed delicately.
"Well, new to legitimate trading," the woman whispered, her voice dropping to conspiratorial levels. "There are rumors... unsavory connections... deals made in dark corners of the city that decent people don't frequent..."