Return to Part One
When smart-assed civilian friends and acquaintances pulled out the old “Star Fleet is actually a military organization” chestnut, Lieutenant Anouk Janssen was one of top names on a list of colleagues in the Science Department that Daffy Gollub liked to pull out of her pocket and say, “Okay, then explain to me the practical/tactical applications of these bitches’ specialties…”
This wasn’t really meant so much to be a dig on Janssen personally as it was to make a point. Yes, starships did occasionally mistakenly defrost megalomaniacal dictator-cicles from past centuries or encounter Greek Gods having a mid-existence crisis. But how often could one reasonably expect that sort of thing to happen? (Gollub awarded extra points to acquaintances who replied, “Holy shit! Those things actually happened?!! This, of course, was the correct answer.) The chemist usually had the charity not to point out that the Star Fleet trained historians who were on the scene to deal with those particular emergencies had proved useless to the point of almost drawing a court martial… Well… perhaps it would be more accurate to say she sometimes forgot to point this fact out…
Gollub informed her friends that the real function of the Archeology and Ancient Civilizations Division on a starship – that Federation funding paid to feed and clothe every freaking day – was primarily to bring moldy rocks to Science Section meetings that they claimed had writing on them (that conveniently only they could decipher – or even see) and deliver long lectures drawing conclusions about the ethical, cultural, and intellectual implications of said crusty stones that supposedly were too subtle for the computer to figure out (or maybe that the computer had just decided might bore the shit out of everyone.)
Anouk Janssen was actually the best of the bunch in a way. She was a folklorist. That meant her dull-ass lectures usually included at least one story. For some reason, Janssen leaned towards the kind of tales that not only kept your eyes open during departmental meetings, but continued to open them at 3 am for weeks following as you contemplated questions such as, “What the actual fuck?” “How could a troll/goblin/dragon even physically manage to do shit like that?” “What the hell was some sick creep thinking when they came up with that shit?” “What would make a culture demented enough to keep repeating a story like that?” or, quite frequently, “What kind of bizarro gene pool did I crawl out of that we should think up crap like that and think it would be a cute idea to tell it to kids for bedtime?”
Like some of her other colleagues from the A&A Division, Lieutenant Janssen had the air of someone who was not quite of the modern era. She was from one of the big Martian colonies, but didn’t have the sort of flamboyant, outdoors-y sort of personality one usually associated with its inhabitant. She was small, pale, and delicate rather than robust and tanned. Instead of the usual flat Martian twang, she spoke with a sort of European accent that reflected her family’s Belgian heritage stubbornly held over from a prior generation of immigrants.
In a different century, Janssen would have doubtlessly worn large, very thick, gold-rimmed spectacles. Her somewhat water-y, very, very, very pale blue eyes still looked as though they might be meant for largely ornamental purposes. This impression of extreme near-sightedness was enhanced by the fact that the folklorist frequently attended departmental meetings armed with a hand-scanner that came equipped with a big magnifying lens attached to one end that she used to examine ancient documents or moldy rocks… depending on what might be at hand that day. When interrupted from her work, Janssen had the peculiar habit of lifting this scanner from pages of lore to peruse the face of the intruder.
“Oh,” the folklorist said, peering at the enlarged version of the chemist who had entered her quarters. “It’s you.”
Gollub blinked. “Like you were expecting?”
Janssen carefully folded the parchment she was examining and laid it aside. “This is about the rings?”
“Why would you say that?” Daffy asked, reflexively searching her person for clues that might immediately betray her mission.
“You had a… spirited discussion with Tamara Sloan on that topic. Uhura has been making certain inquiries – I would assume on your behalf…” the lieutenant listed, marking the points off on her slim fingers. She then shrugged. “Gollub, you are a gifted researcher. Occasionally brilliant. Quiet and subtle, though, you are not.”
“Okay.” The chemist held up her hands, surrendering to the fact that it was hard to keep secrets when one lived in a small metal box traveling through the vast emptiness of space with four hundred and thirty-two other nosey nudniks. “I’m here about the ring. What can you tell me?”
Janssen crossed her arms. “I can tell you I’m not going to give mine to you.”
“Oy!” the chemist groaned and collapsed into the chair opposite Janssen’s desk.
“Why the sudden interest in these rings?” the folklorist asked. “I have always found Pavel to be a very generous person. If you want a ring, ask him. I am positive that he will give one.”
“I know.” Gollub waved away her boyfriend’s apparently well-known open-hearted liberality when it came to jewelry without mentioning the truly hideous (but surprisingly valuable) hand-designed ensemble he’d provided her with on Kelincar. “There’s something odd about these particular rings, though. I was told that they are supposed to just be cheap silver replications. However, they are from a commission that a Haven trader placed with Chekov’s uncle that was intended to be presented to a Starfleet Admiral. What happened there? Why did the commission go wrong? Why did Chekov’s uncle give the rings away instead of melting them down?”
Janssen leaned back in her chair, regarding the chemist with new appreciation. “It does sound as though there is an interesting story behind them… Those are the questions of a researcher, not just a jealous girlfriend.”
“I prefer ‘concerned romantic partner with legitimate investigative instincts,’” Daffy retorted dryly.
That earned her a genuine laugh. “Fair enough. Would you like to examine my ring?”
The chemist gave her a toothy smile. “I would love to.”
Anouk stood and moved to a small locked case on her shelf. She pressed her thumb to the security panel, and it opened to reveal several small velvet boxes. "I keep my more precious personal items secured. One never knows what might happen during a ship-board emergency."
She selected one box and brought it back to the desk, opening it to reveal the snow goose ring nestled in midnight blue velvet.
Daffy leaned forward, her scientific curiosity temporarily overriding her emotional turmoil. The ring was... beautiful. Hauntingly so. It was even lovelier than the one Tamara Sloan possessed. Seven tiny geese in flight moved across the band, their miniature wings overlapping in an intricate spiral pattern that seemed to suggest movement even in the motionless metal. Under the soft lighting of Anouk's quarters, the silver—if it was silver—caught and reflected light in ways that made the band seem to glow and breathe with an inner vitality.
"Mind if I…?" Gollub asked, holding up her scanner.
"Please."
The chemist activated the device and held it over the ring, not touching it yet. The readings made her frown. "This isn't computer-replicated silver."
"No?" Janssen leaned in with interest.
"No. Look at this molecular structure." Gollub tilted the scanner so the folklorist could see the display. "This was hand-forged. You can see the variations in the crystalline structure, the subtle imperfections that only come from traditional metalworking techniques. It ain’t cheap silver either—this is a very high-grade alloy. The kind you'd use for heirloom jewelry."
"Interesting." Anouk picked up the ring carefully, holding it up to the light. "I suspected as much. Max Rostov has a reputation as a master craftsman. He trained in the old ways, before most jewelry was simply designed digitally and replicated. I've read several papers on his work."
"Chekov said these were just mock-ups. Samples." Daffy couldn't take her eyes off the ring. "But this level of craftsmanship... you don't put this much work into a sample."
"Unless the sample itself was meant to be significant," Janssen suggested. She handed the ring to Daffy. "Here. Touch it. You need the full sensory experience to understand."
Daffy took the ring with slightly trembling fingers. It was heavier than she expected, substantial. The geese seemed to move under her fingertips, each feather individually carved with microscopic precision. "Oy vey," she breathed. "This is... this is a work of art."
"Indeed. Now look closely at the interior band."
The chemist lifted the ring, peering at the inside. There, so small it was almost invisible, she could see tiny Cyrillic characters etched into the metal. "What does this say?"
"It's Old Church Slavonic," the folklorist explained, pulling up a reference text on the viewscreen on her desk. "It translates roughly to 'They guard what must be kept.' It's a phrase associated with the swan geese in Russian folklore."
"Swan geese?" Daffy looked up. "Chekov called them snow geese."
"An understandable confusion. In Russian folklore, the geese that serve Baba Yaga are sometimes called swan geese, sometimes snow geese. They're magical creatures that exist between categories—not quite swans, not quite geese. Liminal or what one might call “betwixt and between” beings." Janssen's voice took on the cadence of a lecturer warming to her subject. "The story most people know is relatively simple—swan geese steal a child, sister rescues him from Baba Yaga. You do know who Baba Yaga is?”
“Yeah,” Gollub confirmed. “Although when I first started dating Chekov, I did kinda get the weird impression she might be like a great aunt of his or something…”
“Pavel does have a rather… unique… tendency to personalize traditional tales,” the folklorist admitted with a grimace.
“Oh, yeah.” From her pained expression, Daffy wondered if Chekov’s proclivity to make up bizarre variations of Russian folktales made their pairing equivalent to that of a person with perfect pitch dating a tone deaf individual or if his rugged narrative individualism created a totally unique field of study for the folklorist.
“So you are familiar with some of the usual tropes of this type of story – Good. The deeper folklore is far more complex." Janssen searched her eyes for the type of glazing that were a typical feature of Science Division meetings. “Shall I elaborate?”
Daffy set down her scanner, still holding the ring. "Okay. I’m braced."
Janssen nodded, but as a precaution she ordered two cups of coffee. "In the oldest versions of the tale, the swan geese aren't simply villains. They're psychopomps—creatures that move between worlds. They steal children, yes, but they also reveal hidden truths. They guard secrets. They serve Baba Yaga, who herself is also a liminal figure—neither good nor evil, but a guardian of thresholds and transformations."
"Guardians of secrets," Daffy murmured, turning the ring in her fingers, while she sipped the coffee. "And Admiral Brezhnova was supposed to receive a ring featuring these creatures. Why?"
"That's your mystery, isn't it?" Anouk retrieved a datapad and began pulling up images. "Look at these variations in swan goose imagery across different Slavic cultures. Notice how they're always associated with revelation—with information being brought to light, whether we want them revealed or not."
Gollub studied the images—medieval woodcuts, traditional embroidery patterns, painted icons. In each one, the geese were shown carrying something: a child, a message, a key, a jewel. "They're messengers," she said slowly. "Or... carriers. They transport important things."
"Precisely. And in some of the more obscure variants of the tale, the geese themselves become the message. Their pattern, their flight, their number—all of these communicate meaning to those who know how to read them." Janssen pulled up another image, this one a complex diagram of geese in flight formation. "Seven geese is significant. Seven is a number of completion in many traditions. Seven days of creation, seven deadly sins, seven virtues, seven classical planets..."
"Seven rings," Daffy supplied.
"Seven rings," Janssen confirmed. "Each one potentially unique, each one part of a complete set. The question is: what message were they meant to convey? And to whom?"
Daffy set the ring down carefully on the desk between them, staring at it as if it might suddenly sprout wings and fly away. "From what Chekov told me, I assumed that the commission was canceled because it wasn't needed anymore. But what if it was canceled because someone didn't want the message delivered?"
"Now you're thinking like a proper academic." The folklorist nodded with approval. "Always ask: what isn't being said? What's being hidden?"
"Okay. Then let’s talk about something that we’re leaving unsaid." Daffy held up the ring. "Why won't you give this up? Forgetting entirely about me for the moment…. This is a token from a relationship that ended years ago."
Janssen was quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing the edge of the velvet box. "The first and obvious reason is because it is a piece of living folklore," she said finally. "Most of the time, we study folklore through texts, through artifacts in museums, through second-hand accounts. But this—" she gestured to the ring—"this is a modern craftsman creating within an ancient tradition. Max Rostov didn't just make jewelry. He embedded meaning into metal, continuing a conversation that's centuries old. This ring connects me to Baba Yaga and the swan geese, to Russian peasant tales told around winter fires, to the very human need to encode our secrets and our truths in beautiful objects."
“And the not obvious reason?” the chemist probed.
She looked up at Daffy, smiled and sighed. "The other reason that is perhaps equally obvious is that yes, I enjoyed my time with Pavel. He and I were never going to work out long-term. I believe we both knew that. However, we took pleasure in each other's company. We had stimulating conversations about history and culture. We were briefly lovers… and then we became friends. It's a complete story, a good memory, and this ring marks it. I like to have this remembrance of that time. Why would I give that up?"
The chemist felt something twist in her chest—not jealousy, but something more complicated. Recognition, maybe. "Because someone else wants it?"
"That would be a terrible reason," Anouk said gently. "And it would diminish what the ring represents. My time with Pavel mattered, Daphne. It was real and good and complete. Your time with him is also real and good, and presumably ongoing. Those two truths don't cancel each other out. They coexist, like the swan geese that are both swans and geese, both helpers and threats, both guardians and thieves."
Daffy picked up the ring one more time, holding it up to the light. The seven geese spiraled endlessly, their wings touching, separate but connected. "In the story," she said slowly, "what happens to the geese at the end?"
"They return to Baba Yaga," Janssen replied. "They remain in her service, waiting to carry the next message, to guard the next secret… to steal the next child who needs stealing."
Gollub grimaced. "Nice."
"Folklore rarely is. But it's honest." The folklorist took the ring back and returned it to its velvet box. "The geese don't apologize. They don't explain. They simply exist, doing what they were made to do. I think there's a certain integrity in that."
Daffy stood, gathering her scanner. "You said something earlier—about the geese revealing hidden truths. In the story, do they ever reveal what they're guarding?"
Janssen locked the case again, then turned to face Daffy. "Only to those brave enough—or foolish enough—to follow them all the way to Baba Yaga's hut. And even then, the truth might not be what you expect. The sister in the story went looking for her brother. What she found was that she had to humble herself, to accept help from those she'd scorned, to feed the mouse and drink from the river and eat the rye bread she'd thought beneath her. The truth she discovered wasn't about her brother at all. It was about herself."
"Great," Daffy muttered. "So you're saying this investigation is going to require personal growth and self-reflection… Like I have time for that meshugeneh..."
That earned her another laugh. "I'm saying that if you're going to chase after these rings, you should be prepared to discover things you didn't know you were looking for. The swan geese have a way of revealing what's hidden—whether we're ready for it or not."
As the chemist headed for the door, Janssen called after her. "Daphne? One more thing."
Daffy turned back.
"In the story, the swan geese don't just steal children. They also reveal hidden truths and guard important secrets." The folklorist’s expression was serious now, all traces of academic amusement gone. "If Admiral Brezhnova was meant to receive a ring with that symbolism, you might want to ask yourself: what truth is being guarded? And who doesn't want it revealed?"
“And what might they do to try to keep it secret?” the chemist mused with a shiver as she exited.
The navigation training room was dim except for the glow of the main console, where Ensign Alina Ciobanu sat surrounded by a holographic asteroid field that looked ready to tear her virtual ship apart. Daffy Gollub lingered in the doorway, watching the younger woman's hands flow across the controls—no hesitation, no wasted movement. These weren't the careful gestures of someone who'd learned to fly in Starfleet's sterile simulators. This was muscle memory earned dodging real debris at speeds that would make Academy instructors blanch.
On the viewscreen, tumbling asteroids the size of shuttlecraft spun toward collision. Ciobanu banked hard, threading her ship through a gap that couldn't have been more than two meters wider than her hull on either side. The simulation chimed its approval. Textbook perfect. Better than the textbook.
"Nice flying, Lilac."
The ensign's chair spun so fast it nearly toppled. Ciobanu was on her feet in an instant, compact and coiled, her grey eyes sharp as targeting sensors. "What did you just call me?"
Daffy had the reaction she'd hoped for. Racers—former Clavists, the ones who'd survived the underground circuit long enough to reinvent themselves as model Starfleet officers—were easy to spot once you knew the tells. They had a very specific personality profile. A long-time groupie could practically smell one from two solar systems away. Then there were a lot of obvious things they did that gave themselves away. Case in point -- most people, when caught out with use of their secret racing handle, would play dumb. Blink innocently. Make an excuse and leave. But not a racer. Racers would stand there and spend twenty furious minutes loudly explaining how you were NOT SUPPOSED to use Clave names because they'd ALL TAKEN OATHS as teenagers to NEVER REVEAL those names under ANY circumstances because the Clave was SECRET. As if the best way to preserve secrecy was to shout about it.
Daphne Gollub did not quite understand the psychology behind it. She would never lay odds against it playing out exactly that way, though.
"Don't." The ensign’s voice was sharp as a phaser blast. "Don't you dare use Clave names on a Federation starship. Are you meshuga? Do you want to get us both court-martialed?"
Perfect. The chemist let the door hiss shut behind her, sealing them in together. Mission accomplished—the ensign was rattled, defensive, off-balance. Exactly where Daffy needed her.
"Sorry. Sorry," she said, her tone carefully mild. "It's all right. I'm—"
"I know who you are." Ciobanu's arms crossed over her chest like a shield going up. Her lip curled. "Groupie."
“Oh?” Gollub raised an eyebrow. “My reputation precedes me… Or at least parts of it…”
The ensign was conveniently ignoring the parts of that reputation that should have warned her she was in danger of getting her ass kicked. But the Slav's cold stare made it clear she didn't care. She was past caution, past calculation—straight into that particular brand of reckless defiance that racers wore like armor.
Instead of answering verbally, Ciobanu held up her right hand. Her forefinger traced slow circles on the tip of her thumb—a gesture that, in certain circles, meant small world or we all run in the same orbits. Former Clavists had their ways of finding each other.
"How the hell does an old-timer like you know me?"
Gollub rolled her eyes at her supposedly ancient status and returned the “small world” gesture.
The truth was slightly more complex. When the ensign had turned up on the list of Chekov’s ring recipients, the chemist had sniffed out a definite Racer-ly aroma to her bio. She’d checked out her suspicions with the Encyclopedia Clave-tanica himself, Mr. Jeremy Paget. The Security Officer had not only confirmed the id, but had been able to supply Gollub with a wealth of tantalizing information and rumors about possible pertinent connections.
“Listen, what I actually want to know about…”
"Damn it!" Ciobanu's fist slammed into the nearest console hard enough to make the display flicker. "You're not here about that damned ring, are you?"
“What if I am?”
"I'm sick of the rumors!" The ensign's hand slashed through the air, cutting at phantoms. "I never slept with Chekov! He's my section chief. He's not that kind of man." She stabbed an accusing finger at Daffy. "If you respected him...if you truly loved him, you would know that was true."
"I know it's true." Daffy held up both hands, the picture of innocence. "I do not think you slept with him. That's not why I'm here. Nobody's saying you slept with him."
The Slav gave her a dubious glare. “Nobody? Really?”
“Okay, almost nobody…” Gollub granted. “Nobody I would take seriously… The thing is -- nobody has a clue why he gave it to you, though.”
“It was my birthday!!!” Ciobanu answered at full volume, shaking both her fists in the air.
Obviously, this was not her first time having this conversation…
“Okay, okay.” The chemist held up her hands again, placating. “I believe you. A birthday present… Perfectly believable… I mean, though, it is a really, really nice birthday present…”
The ensign growled a warning.
“I’m not trying to imply anything,” Gollub assured her. She then paused and added carefully, “But…I do know Chekov really, really well. And I do know that as section chief he tries not to do anything that would make it seem like he was playing favorites… like giving one person a fancy birthday present… unless he gave everybody a fancy birthday present?”
Ciobanu blew out a long breath. Her shoulders dropped half an inch. "Okay." She planted her hands on her hips. "You want to know? I'll tell you. He gave me the ring because I asked him for it."
Gollub raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
"There's a connection to someone important to me." The words came clipped, defensive. "The lieutenant commander was dating Tamara Sloan at the time. I'd seen her ring."
"You recognized the design?" Daffy moved closer, scenting blood. "The story behind it—it's Russian, right?"
"Moldavian!" Ciobanu nearly spat the word.
"Huh?"
"I'm NOT Russian." Each word ground out through clenched teeth—clearly another raw nerve. "I'm Moldavian!"
“Yeah, okay,” Gollub replied, consigning this data immediately to the “I don’t care” file. “So it was a Slavic thing, right?”
“No, it was more than that,” the ensign insisted. “I knew something about it… about the person the ring was created for.”
“Who?” The trap sprung before Ciobanu could stop herself. "Admiral Brezhnova. The commission was for her. Wild geese in flight..."
Satisfaction bloomed warm in Daffy's chest. There it was. This was the connection Jeremy Paget's sources had pointed to. The name Ciobanu might have carefully omitted if Daffy had kept things cordial and calm instead of deliberating poking every pressure point she could find.
"You know Admiral Brezhnova?"
"She helped me get into Starfleet Academy." The ensign's voice softened with something like reverence "She's why I'm here. Why I have a career, a future, instead of—" She stopped herself, shook her head. "She saw something in me worth investing in. That ring connects me to her, to her legacy. That's why I asked Commander Chekov about them. That's why he gave me one."
"You admire her." Daffy moved closer, trying to read the younger woman's face in the glow of the simulation.
"I worship her," Ciobanu said simply. "She's everything I want to be. Strong, brilliant, fearless. She doesn't let anything stop her."
The intensity in those words made Daffy's investigative instincts sing. "You know her pretty well, then."
"I know her daughter better. Christy Chaz—we were close at the Cla—" The ensign caught herself mid-word, eyes flashing a warning. "We were friends as teenagers. She talks about her mother sometimes."
"What does she say?"
"That her mother is the best pilot she's ever seen. That she's fearless but not reckless – at least not most of the time. That she plays the long game."
The words began to set off a series of very specific warning bells in the chemist’s mind.
"And she has secrets,” she mused aloud. “Important ones."
"Well, duh." Ciobanu rolled her eyes. "She's a Starfleet admiral."
"The kind that might explain why someone commissioned an expensive, symbolic ring for her and then cancelled the order,” the chemist said slowly as certain factors started to arrange themselves inside her head. “The kind that might shed some light on why Admiral Brezhnova never married, why she raised her daughter alone, why she's so protective of certain information."
"You think she was a Clavist." It wasn't a question.
Racers had a very specific personality profile. A long-time groupie could practically smell one from two solar systems away.
Daffy smiled, shrugged, then held up her hand and traced a circle around the tip of her thumb. “Who knows?”
Ciobanu frowned and gave a warning shake of her head. "Have you ever heard of Artemis?"
The name meant nothing to Gollub, but she filed it away. "Should I have?"
"If you'd been a Racer instead of a Groupie, yes. Artemis was legendary—one of the greatest pilots the Cla—the racing circuit ever saw. Disappeared around the time Admiral Brezhnova entered Starfleet Academy." The ensign shook a cautioning finger. "But that's just speculation. Rumor. The kind of thing that could ruin a career if it came out the wrong way."
"Or if the wrong people found out."
"Exactly." Ciobanu's arms crossed again, her whole body radiating protective tension. "So whatever you're digging into with these rings, Commander, you need to be careful. If Admiral Brezhnova's past is involved, if someone commissioned that ring for reasons connected to her history, there might be people who would prefer certain secrets stayed buried."
"Dangerous people?"
"Haven traders. Mercenaries. People who were involved in conflicts before the alliance." The ensign’s grey eyes held Daffy's, steady and serious. "People who might have worked with or against someone like Artemis during the border skirmishes between the Federation and the Haven Trading Empire."
Cold slithered down Daffy's spine. This had started as jealousy—a petty quest to possess something that would prove her importance to Pavel. Now, though, she was staring at something bigger, darker, something with teeth.
"You're not getting my damned ring," Ciobanu informed her, voice flat and final. "It represents my connection to someone I respect more than almost anyone in the galaxy. But I'll tell you this: if you want answers, you need to find out who commissioned it and why. Not just the surface story—the real reason. Because I guarantee you, it wasn't just about making a pretty piece of jewelry."
"And you think Christy Chaz might know more?"
"Christy will probably tell you to go to hell." The ensign laughed, short and sharp, then gestured toward the nearest viewport. "But go ahead. Ask her. Talk to the crew of the HTE High Stakes. That's where Christy is now. If anyone knows what's really going on, it's them."
"The High Stakes?" Daffy had heard rumors about that ship—a mercenary vessel doing classified work for Starfleet. Or maybe it was a spy ship. The stories shifted depending on who was telling them.
"Admiral Brezhnova recruited them personally. Put her own daughter on that damned ship." Ciobanu turned back to her simulation, fingers already reaching for the controls. Conversation over. "Ask yourself why an admiral would do that, Commander Gollub. What kind of mission would be important enough to risk her only child? That's the kind of people you're dealing with. Then ask yourself—do I really want to keep bothering people with my little questions?"
The chemist stood there for a long moment, watching the ensign's skilled hands resume their dance across the console. On the viewscreen, a virtual ship wove through impossible dangers with the kind of confidence that only came from surviving real ones.
"Well, thanks for the info, ensign," Daffy said finally, turning toward the exit. "Sorry if I brought up anything too—"
"Just don't do it again." Ciobanu didn't look up. "Some of us have worked hard to leave certain things behind. Don't drag them back into the light… unless you’re very sure you’ve got a very good reason."