Return to Part Three
“Could you stop?” Uhura requested without lifting her eyes from her screens. “You’re making me nervous.”
Seated at the primary console of the U.S.S. Enterprise's Communications Lab, Uhura seemed no more nervous than a concert pianist taking her place before a Steinway. The room hummed with the ambient noise of monitoring stations, but most were unmanned at this hour—just rows of dark screens reflecting the blue glow of active displays. The Communications Officer's fingers played a veritable symphony across the controls as she routed a secure subspace connection.
Daffy paced behind Uhura's chair, her reflection ghost-like in the dark viewscreens surrounding them. Five steps one way. Turn. Five steps back. Her boots made soft sounds on the deck plating that seemed too loud in the quiet room.
"Are you sure he'll even answer? From these readings, it looks like it's the middle of the night in Moscow."
Uhura didn't look up from her console, her fingers moving with practiced precision. "Max Rostov keeps jeweler's hours—which means he works whenever inspiration strikes. “Besides," a small smile played at her lips, "he knows this is about his dear nephew."
Daffy smoothed down her uniform tunic—a nervous gesture she immediately regretted. Gevalt, I'm being ridiculous. This call is not to Chekov's oh-so-perfect-and-wonderful parents. It's just the uncle. How badly can I screw this up... Oh, God... Forget I asked that!
The viewscreen flickered to life, and Uhura made a final adjustment. "Here we go. Audio and visual should be clear, but there might be a slight delay. Try not to talk over him."
The screen resolved into an image of a cluttered workshop that looked like it had been assembled by a magpie with excellent taste. Jeweler's tools hung on pegboards in precise arrangements, their shapes casting strange shadows under focused work lights. Magnifying glasses of various sizes perched on stands like metallic flowers. Trays of silver findings glinted on workbenches. A large man with a magnificent white mustache leaned into view, squinting at his screen, his kind brown eyes obscured somewhat by the magnifying lenses perched on his broad nose like a pair of spectacles.
"Hello? Is this the I>Enterprise? Uhura, is that you, darling girl?" His accent rolled and tumbled like Chekov's but warmer, fuller, each consonant given extra weight.
"Good evening, Max. Or should I say good morning to you?" Uhura's voice took on an affectionate tone that made Daffy realize this wasn't their first conversation. "I have Lieutenant Daphne Gollub here. She's a friend of Pavel's and—"
A delighted grin split Max Rostov's face like sunrise breaking over the steppes. He threw open his arms in welcome, nearly knocking over a tray of gemstones in his enthusiasm. He was clearly the sort of person to whom "stranger" was a foreign concept—probably in every language he spoke.
"Our Pashenka's girlfriend! Darling, gorgeous you are!"
"Uh..." Gollub blinked, thrown completely off balance. Chekov's warnings about his parents had prepared her to meet someone reserved and proper, all formal Russian politeness and careful judgment. This was like being embraced by a bear made of sunshine. "Uhm... Why, thank you, Mr. Rostov..."
"Mr. Rostov is my father." The jeweler made a broad gesture of negation, his whole upper body involved in the dismissal. "God rest his soul. You will be calling me Uncle Max. Everyone does!" Gollub leaned toward Uhura and whispered behind her hand, "How much have you told him about me?"
"Not enough! Not enough!" Rostov answered for her, his hearing apparently excellent despite the subspace distance.
Daffy felt a blush creep up her neck. "I'm afraid that your nephew is very angry with me right now."
"Oh, such a temper!" The jeweler dismissed the idea with a wave of his chubby fingers, the gesture so familiar it made Daffy's chest ache—she'd seen Chekov make that exact same motion a hundred times. "Ever since he was just a little boy. So proud and so stubborn! Once, when he was six, he refused to speak to his aunt for entire day because she said his drawing of horse looked like dog. Can you imagine? Six years old and already with the silent treatment!"
"He's not changed that much," Gollub confirmed with a rueful smile.
"That is coming from his father's side of the family," Rostov confided, leaning forward conspiratorially. "All the Chekovs — stubborn as rocks. Beautiful, brilliant rocks, but rocks nonetheless. Just leave Pavloushka to his Uncle Max, darling. I always know how to make him smile. What is it that I can do for you?"
"Yes, actually. Pavel gave some rings to... various people. He said you made them originally as samples for a commission that was cancelled?"
"Ah, yes. The snow goose rings..." Max set down what appeared to be a jeweler's loupe and settled back in his chair, which creaked under his weight. The warmth in his face dimmed slightly, replaced by something more thoughtful. "An interesting story this is, though not entirely happy one. You have time?"
"All the time you need," Daffy said, pulling up a chair next to Uhura.
"Good, good. This was... oh, maybe seven, eight years ago… maybe longer? Time moves differently when you get to be my age." Max's eyes grew distant, focusing on something far beyond the screen. "A man came to my shop. Haven man—Luk Barilon was his name. You know Havens, yes?"
"I've had some... experience with them," Daffy replied with careful understatement, thinking of Lane Gage, his crew, and her complicated days at the Clave.
"Then you know they are not people who do things without reason. Every action is transaction, every word is negotiation." Max tapped his temple to indicate the sharp Haven mind always calculating, always in motion. "But this Barilon, he was different. Nervous. Very nervous. Not like Haven at all. Like bird that knows hawk is circling."
Uhura leaned forward slightly, her professional interest kindling. Given her long-time relationship with Lane Gage's Security Advisor, Tomor Rand, she too had first-hand knowledge of the workings of the Haven mind—both the calculating surface and the depths beneath. "What made you notice?"
"Everything! He kept looking over shoulder. “Checking windows. Asking about back exits—and what Haven worries about exits? They negotiate their way through all barriers!" Max shook his head. "He wanted ring made for Starfleet Admiral—Admiral Rhonda Brezhnova. He showed me pictures, specifications. Design was to be seven wild geese in flight, each goose slightly different, all circling around finger. Band was to be silver, but real silver, not replicated. And work was to be done by hand, with traditional tools. Very specific, very precise."
"That sounds expensive," Uhura observed with an appreciative whistle.
"Очень дорого — very expensive, yes! I told him this would cost considerable amount, maybe take three months to complete. But he said—" Max paused, his mustache twitching as he recalled the conversation. "He said money was no object. Time was no object. Only perfection mattered. Ring had to tell story, he said. Had to speak without words."
Daffy exchanged a glance with Uhura. The Communications Officer's eyebrows rose fractionally—the tiniest signal that this was new information, important information. "What story?"
"This I did not know. When I asked, he became... how do you say... evasive? No, that's not quite right. He became frightened." Max's voice dropped, and suddenly the jovial uncle vanished, replaced by a man remembering genuine fear reflected in another's eyes. "Yes, frightened. As if speaking of it would bring danger down on both our heads. Like mentioning devil's name in church."
He shook his head slowly. "I should have known then something was wrong. But I am businessman, and commission was substantial. I took it."
"And you made seven sample rings?" Uhura prompted gently, her fingers already moving across her console, taking notes in a separate file.
"Sample rings, yes. You see, with such important piece, I make what we call mock-ups—test designs in cheaper materials to show client options." Max's hands came alive as he spoke, illustrating in the air. "Is silver geese against dark metal band better? Or light? Should geese all fly in same direction, or should they seem to chase each other? Should wings be spread wide or tucked for speed?" His fingers curved and swept, becoming wings, becoming flight itself. "Each mock-up explores different artistic choice, different symbolic meaning."
He reached off-screen and brought into view a small wooden box, worn smooth by years of handling. Opening it with careful fingers, he removed a ring—clearly a sister to the ones Chekov gave away, but with a different configuration of geese. Even through the screen in the workshop's harsh lighting, the piece seemed to glow with its own quiet light.
"I even saved one for myself. Couldn't bear to destroy them all—too much work, too much beauty. Look." He held it up to his camera, and the geese seemed to shimmer, to move in the light. "These geese fly toward each other, yes? As if coming home. Others I made showed geese flying away, or in circle, or in formation like military squadron. Each tells different story about journey, about destination, about what it means to move through life."
Daffy heard Uhura's small gasp of appreciation beside her—a soft intake of breath that spoke of genuine aesthetic pleasure. Unlike the chemist, who had seen and even held a few of the rings over the course of her inquiries, this was Uhura's first time seeing one of Max Rostov's magnificent creations. The Communications Officer leaned closer to the screen, her professional composure slipping just enough to reveal wonder underneath.
The jeweler smiled, pleased as any artist at having their work truly seen. "You like, no?"
"We like," Uhura affirmed with a longing sigh. "Very much -- yes!"
Gollub found herself again amazed at how each design variation could be so similar and yet so uniquely stunning despite its deceptive simplicity. The geese weren't just stamped or molded—each feather had been individually crafted, each eye held a spark of life. It was not at all difficult to understand why each of the recipients she had talked to so far had refused to part with these precious gifts, holding them with the fierce protectiveness usually reserved for family heirlooms.
"They're not just jewelry," Daffy commented softly.
"Конечно нет —of course not!” Rostov rotated the ring with loving pride. “They are little poems in metal. Tiny sculptures that you carry with you. And each one unique, even though all from same commission."
Max set the ring down carefully on a square of black velvet, positioning it just so. "I was very pleased with this work. I thought, when I show Barilon, he will be happy, will choose one, and I will make final piece even more beautiful. Will pour everything I know into making something that will last centuries."
"But he cancelled the order," Uhura said softly, her voice carrying equal parts confusion and disappointment that anyone could refuse something so lovely.
The jeweler's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug that carried the weight of old disappointment. "He came to shop to review mock-ups. This was maybe six weeks after original commission. I had sent him images over subspace, but he insisted on seeing them in person. So he comes to Moscow, to my workshop, and I show him rings. All seven, laid out on black velvet like seven small miracles." The old jeweler paused. When he continued, his usual ebullience had drained away completely, leaving behind a graver aspect.
"He examined each one, very carefully. Picked them up, turned them in light, tried them on his own fingers—which was strange, as they were sized for woman's hand. Small woman's hand, delicate. On his Haven fingers they barely fit past the first knuckle. He seemed... agitated. Kept checking timepiece, looking at door. Jumping at every sound from street outside. And then he said something very odd."
"What did he say?" Daffy leaned closer to the screen, drawn forward by the tension in Max's voice.
"He asked me: 'Can silver keep secrets?' Just like that. I thought perhaps he meant, could silver tarnish or discolor if exposed to certain chemicals? So I began to explain about silver's properties, about proper care and storage, about keeping away from sulfur and chlorine. But he waved hand—impatient, you know?—and said, 'No, no. Can it hold secrets? Can it carry messages that only certain people can read?'"
Uhura's fingers had stilled on her console, hovering above the keys. "Did you understand what he was implying?"
"Not then, no. I thought perhaps he wanted some kind of inscription? Hidden message engraved inside band? This is not uncommon—lovers do it all the time, hide little words where only they will know. I told him this was possible, yes, but would require knowing what to engrave. He said—" Max stopped, his face tightening with the effort of keeping the memory exact. "He said, 'The pattern itself is the message. But I'm not sure she'll understand. I'm not sure I'll survive long enough to explain it to her.'"
Uhura and Gollub exchanged alarmed glances at the distinctly ominous tone of this revelation.
"And then?" Daffy's prompted impatiently.
"And then someone knocked on door of my shop. Loud, aggressive knocking. Barilon—he jumped like frightened rabbit. His face went, how do you say, white? Not literally white— our gold-skinned Haven friends can't go white. But I could see fear. Real fear. He gathered up all seven rings, put them in his pockets, and said commission was cancelled. Just like that. Cancelled."
"He took the rings?" Uhura clarified.
"For moment, yes. But then he looked at them in his hands and seemed to realize—if someone was looking for them, looking for evidence of commission, he couldn't be caught with them. So he shoved them back at me and said to destroy them, melt them down, forget we ever spoke. Then he went out back door of shop, into alley.” The jeweler took in a deep breath and spread his hands helplessly. “I never saw him again."
"And that person at the front door?" Gollub queried urgently, leaning so far forward she nearly knocked into Uhura's shoulder.
Max shrugged, but his eyes held old confusion. "Salesman. Just salesman, wanting to show me new line of synthetic gems. Which — again — is little odd. Everyone in Moscow knows Max Rostov has no use for such trash. I work only with real stones, real metals. This is not secret. So why come to my door? When I went to back alley to look for Barilon, he was gone. Vanished, like ghost. Like he was never there at all."
Uhura shook her head. "That must have been frightening."
"Frightening? Да, yes. But also puzzling. I sat in my workshop that night, looking at seven little rings, wondering what to do. They were beautiful—why destroy beauty? And Barilon had paid substantial deposit, enough to cover materials and some of labor. So I thought, maybe I keep them. Maybe someday I learn what they mean, why they frightened him so."
Gollub frowned, puzzled. "But you gave them to Pavel instead?"
"Not right away. I kept them in my safe for some time. Just sitting there in darkness, gathering dust, carrying whatever secret they carried." Max paused, his expression softening with memory. "Then Pavloushka came to visit—he was on leave from Academy, in his last year. So grown up, so proud in his uniform! We had lunch at nice restaurant near Red Square. He was telling me about his studies, about his friends, about girls he was dating—so many girls!"
Max chuckled, but there was deep affection in it. "And I thought, why should these beautiful things sit in my safe, gathering dust? Why not let them bring joy, even if we don't understand their original purpose? What is point of beauty if no one sees it?"
"So you gave them to him to give away as gifts," Daffy said.
"The next time my business took me near the Academy," Rostov confirmed with a nod. "I told him they were practice pieces, nothing valuable—which was true enough. I didn't charge him for them. But workmanship was good, and design was unique. I thought, why not send them out to space, let young people wear them, let them carry little bit of mystery and beauty in their lives. Better than sitting in dark safe, да? Better than melting them down like Barilon asked."
"Did you tell Pavel about Barilon? About what happened?"
Max's expression became rueful, the lines deepening around his eyes. "I told him commission was cancelled. I didn't tell him about fear I saw in Barilon's eyes, about strange questions, about man running out back door. Why worry boy with such things? He had studies to focus on, career to build. And I thought, probably this was just Haven business deal gone wrong. Probably nothing to do with rings themselves. Probably I was old man making mountains from molehills."
"But you wondered," Uhura observed gently.
"But I wondered, yes. Over years, I wondered." Max picked up his ring again, turning it slowly in the light. "And sometimes... sometimes I would think about that question: 'Can silver keep secrets?' And I would look at ring I kept for myself, and wonder what secret these geese were supposed to carry. What message was so important that Haven man risked his life to commission them. What was worth dying for?"
Daffy took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Max, did Barilon ever mention why he chose the design of wild geese? Why that particular imagery?"
"Ah! Yes, he did. In our first meeting, before fear set in." Rostov’s eyes brightened. "He said Admiral Brezhnova would understand meaning—that she would know story of swan geese from her childhood. He said it was... what is word... код... code? No, not code exactly. Символ —symbol. Personal symbol she would recognize immediately, without explanation."
"But you'd never met Admiral Brezhnova?" Uhura asked.
"Never. Though I knew of her, of course. Famous officer, very successful career. I thought perhaps Barilon was admirer? Wanted to give impressive gift to catch her attention? But his fear suggested something deeper, something more dangerous."
Daffy tapped her lower lip thoughtfully. "Max, you said he disappeared right after cancelling the commission. Did you try to find him? Contact him?"
"I tried, yes. I had contact information from original commission—subspace frequency for ship he was traveling on. But frequency was no longer in service. Dead air, nothing but static. I contacted Haven merchant registry, thinking perhaps he had returned to Haven space, resumed normal trading. But they had no record of Luk Barilon currently registered with any vessel."
"It's like he vanished completely," Uhura murmured.
"Or was disappeared," Max said darkly, and the weight of that distinction hung in the air between them. "This is why I sometimes wonder if I should have destroyed rings as he asked. What if keeping them puts someone in danger? What if they really do carry secret, and wrong people discover this? What if I sent Pavloushka out into galaxy carrying seven tiny pieces of evidence that could get him killed?"
The Communication Officer's hands moved over her console with sudden purpose, her professional training taking over. "Max, I'm going to send you some images. Can you look at them and tell me if any of these people were the person who came to your door that day?"
"I will try. Was long time ago, and I only saw briefly before I sent away. But I will try."
While Uhura worked, Daffy asked, "Max, you said this person knocked. They didn't press the chime. They knocked, right?" She mimed a loud, aggressive rapping at an imaginary door, her fist coming down hard. "Like this?"
"Да, yes, yes!" The jeweler pointed to her gesture and nodded vigorously. "Like so!"
Rostov pasted a forbidding frown on his kind features, transforming his whole face, then demonstrated, his fist coming down on his workbench with three sharp strikes that made tools jump and rattle. The sound carried through the subspace connection with startling clarity. "Not polite customer knock. Like... like security knock. Like police knock. Official, you understand? Demanding to be let in. The kind of knock that says 'Open this door or we break it down.'"
"And Barilon reacted immediately?"
"Like he had been waiting for it. Like he knew someone was coming for him and he had been trying to finish business before they arrived." The jeweler shook his head. "I have thought about this many times over years. I think maybe he knew he was being followed. Maybe he chose my shop because it had back exit—I'm on corner, you see, doors on two streets. Maybe whole commission was excuse to meet in public place where he could escape if needed. Maybe rings were just... what is word... cover story?"
"But then why actually commission the rings?" Daffy scratched her head, frustrated. "Why not just arrange a meeting? Why go through elaborate process of design specifications and deposits?"
"This I have wondered too. Unless..." Max paused, picking up his sample again and holding it up to the light, watching the geese seem to fly in the illumination. "Unless rings themselves were important. Unless they were message or signal or... I don't know. Way to communicate something without speaking? Like code written in jewelry that looks innocent?"
Uhura finished her work and looked up. "Max, the images are coming through now."
On Max's screen, presumably, a series of images appeared—though Daffy couldn't see them from her angle. She watched the old jeweler's face as he examined each one, his expression growing more focused, the craftsman's attention to detail emerging.
"No... no... нет, not this one either... wrong build... wrong height... wait." Max leaned forward until his nose nearly touched his screen, his eyes narrowing behind his magnifying lenses. "This one. Maybe this one. Build is right, height is right. The way he stands—something familiar about posture. But I'm not certain—I barely saw face, and was eight years ago. Memory plays tricks."
"Thank you, Max. That's helpful," Uhura said, making careful notes in her file.
"Who is it?" Daffy asked her colleague urgently. "Who did you show him?"
Uhura's expression was troubled, her lips pressed into a thin line. "People who were in Moscow around that time and who had connections to both Haven Trading Empire and Starfleet Intelligence. It's a short list, but not as short as I'd hoped. Too many possibilities, not enough certainty."
"Something I still think about after all these years," Rostov began, turning the delicate silver band over in his fingers with infinite gentleness. "Is not the mystery of rings, or even what happened to Barilon. Is something he said, almost as afterthought, as he was putting rings back in my hands."
"What did he say?" Uhura asked, her attention sharpening.
"He said: 'If anyone comes asking about these, tell them you melted them down. Tell them you destroyed them completely. And if Admiral Brezhnova ever contacts you, tell her... tell her the geese flew home, but the hunter followed.'" Max's voice had dropped to barely above a whisper. "Then he was gone."
The silence that followed was profound. Even the ambient noise of the communications room seemed to fade away, leaving only the soft hum of the active console. Daffy felt her heart hammering in her chest.
"The geese flew home, but the hunter followed," she repeated slowly. "That sounds like a warning."
"Да, warning. But warning of what? And to whom?" Max spreads his hands helplessly. "I never heard from Admiral Brezhnova. I never heard from Barilon again. And I gave rings away, thinking they were just beautiful jewelry. But now you call, asking questions, and I think—maybe I should have listened to frightened Haven man. Maybe I should have destroyed them after all."
In rarest of moments, Daphne Gollub found herself momentarily at a loss for what to say.
Max leaned forward, his kind face suddenly stern. "Listen to me, young lady. And you too, Uhura. I am just old jeweler. I make pretty things for people to wear, to enjoy. But these rings—I think they are not just pretty things. I think they are Pandora's box that I should have left closed. Or destroyed, as Barilon asked."
"It's too late for that now," the chemist replied, giving a long rueful sigh. "They're out there. People have them. And if they really do mean something, if they're really important somehow—"
"Then people who have them may be in danger," Max finished, his voice heavy. "This is what worries me. Not rings themselves, but what they represent. What they might reveal. What might happen to anyone who starts asking questions about them. What might happen to you two, sitting there in that spaceship, poking at secrets that who knows what has happened to protect."
"What do you think they represent?" Uhura asked directly.
Rostov was quiet for a long moment. "I think rings were meant to be proof of something. Evidence, да? But evidence that could be destroyed, could be denied. Barilon asked if silver could keep secrets—but silver cannot keep secrets. Silver is just metal. So maybe question was: can secret be kept in plain sight? Can it be displayed as simple jewelry while actually being coded message?"
"A message in the design itself," Daffy repeated thoughtfully.
"Именно —exactly. And if I am right, if rings are messages, then question becomes: what message? And who is supposed to receive it? Barilon said Admiral Brezhnova would understand. But understand what?"
"The story of the swan geese," Gollub supplied. "From Russian folklore. About children being stolen and rescued."
Max's eyebrows rose, clearly impressed. "You know this story?"
"Oh, I hear plenty of Russian stories," she assured him with a small smile, just in case the family was in any doubt that their beloved nephew wasn't doing his part to promote the cultural heritage of the Motherland. "And I've heard a lot about this particular one recently. The geese steal children for Baba Yaga, and the sister must brave terrible dangers to rescue her brother from the witch's hut."
"Да, this is story. But in story, geese are servants of Baba Yaga—they do her bidding. They steal child not for themselves, but for witch. So if rings show geese, and Barilon said Brezhnova would understand symbolism..." Max trails off, letting them complete the thought.
"Then someone or something was stolen," Uhura concluded quietly. "Something that belongs to Brezhnova. And the geese—or whoever they represent—are the thieves. Or the messengers of the thief."
"Or," Daffy added slowly, her voice gaining strength as the idea took shape, "the rings are a signal. A way of saying: we know what was taken. We know where it is. We can help you get it back. We have proof."
The jeweler nodded. "This makes sense, да. But if this is true, then anyone wearing ring is marked. Is saying to those who know: I am connected to this secret. I am part of this message."
Quiet alarm set in as the implications of this conclusion settled over the three.
"Max," Daffy says carefully, "has anyone from Starfleet ever contacted you about the rings? Security, Intelligence, anyone official?"
"Нет, no one. Though..." He paused. "Though sometimes I wonder if my workshop is monitored. Small things, you know? Feeling of being watched. Tools moved slightly when I am certain I left them in specific place. But I am old man—maybe I am imagining things."
"Maybe not," Uhura responded firmly, her fingers already busy on another console. "Max, I'm going to arrange for some security monitoring of your shop. Nothing invasive, just precautionary. If someone has been watching—"
"No, нет!" Rostov made a sharp gesture of negation, both hands up like he was physically pushing the idea away. "This is exactly what I don't want. You bring security, you bring attention. You make me into person worth watching instead of just old man making jewelry. Better to be nothing special, nothing interesting, just background noise in city of millions. You understand?"
"I understand," Uhura replied, immediately lifting her fingers from her console and turning to face him fully, giving him her complete attention. "But Max, if you're right—if these rings are evidence or messages—then you might already be on someone's radar. You might have been for years. Better to have protection than to be vulnerable. Better to know someone is watching your back."
Rostov was silent for a long moment, his face troubled. Then: "You do what you must. But be discreet, да? Very, very discreet. I have lived seventy-three years without needing bodyguard, without looking over shoulder. I would like to continue this way. I would like to die old man in my workshop, surrounded by pretty things, not frightened old man who jumped at every shadow."
"We'll be discreet," Uhura promised, her voice soft but certain. "You won't even know they're there."
“Max,” Daffy began somewhat apologetically, feeling overwhelmed by the weight of the information they had uncovered. "We’ve taken up so much of your time… Thank you for speaking to us about this…”
"Пожалуйста —you're welcome.” The jeweler made a gesture that brushed any thought of inconvenience to him aside. “But please, darling girls, be careful! Whatever these rings mean, someone was frightened enough to run. Someone disappeared completely. And if you start asking too many questions, you may find answers you wish you hadn't found."
"We'll be careful," Daffy pledged automatically, though even as the words left her mouth she wasn't sure she meant them. The mystery had hooks in her now, deep and sharp, pulling her forward.
“We’ll follow up with you again soon,” Uhura promised.
Rostov grinned broadly. “Something to look forward to!” He picked up the ring again, holding it out from him at arm's length. "Oh, such trouble from such a little thing!" he scolded it affectionately.
The seven geese are captured in exquisite detail, each feather visible, each beak slightly open as if calling to its companions. But unlike the rings Pavel gave away, these geese fly in a specific pattern—inward, toward the center, converging.
"So gorgeous!" Uhura sighed, genuine longing in her voice. "Max, you truly are an artist..."
"You see?" Max pointed with a broad finger, tracing the flight pattern in the air above the ring. "These geese, they fly toward point of convergence. Toward meeting. Toward home. Other rings I made, geese fly away, or in circle, or in chaos—each following own path. But this one—this one shows coming together. Shows reunion. Shows journey's end."
"The geese flew home," Daffy murmured, the words taking on new weight. "But the hunter followed."
"Да," Max said softly, his voice carrying years of unspoken worry. "And perhaps hunter is still following, all these years later. Perhaps hunter never stops. This is what frightens me most—not the past, but the idea that past is not finished. That it waits, patient as death, for right moment to become present again. That it has been watching all this time, waiting to see who wears these rings, who asks about them, who knows too much."
He set the ring down with finality. "Be careful, darling girls. Some secrets are dangerous to know. Some questions are dangerous to ask."
The connection ended and the screen switched to the familiar Starfleet logo, blue and white and reassuringly normal. The normalcy, however, felt a bit hollow.
Daffy and Uhura sat in silence for a moment. The communications room felt colder, the shadows deeper, the dark viewscreens around them like empty eyes watching.
"Well," Uhura finally said, "that conversation certainly did not tie everything up into a neat bundle and put a bow on it."
The chemist put her hands up to forestall what she anticipated might be her friend's next comment. "I know I promised that I would drop everything after I spoke with Max..."
"Daf, this could be something very dangerous," the communications officer warned, swiveling in her chair to face Gollub directly. "Asking questions could just stir things up and increase the threat level. We could be painting targets on people's backs—including our own."
"We can look at it that way," Gollub granted, then put her hands on her hips, her chin lifting with stubborn determination. "Or maybe we've stumbled onto a situation where these rings are seven tiny time bombs that our Pavel has gone about the galaxy scattering merrily in his wake like some kind of Russian Red Riding Hood with the bread crumbs..."
"I think that was Hansel and Gretel," the Communications Officer corrected mildly.
"...And they're just waiting for this 'hunter' character to come along and explode them," the chemist finished unheedingly, too caught up in her momentum to care about fairy tale accuracy. "We might be the only people who can warn them. We might be the only people who can stop whatever's coming."
"That also seems like a distinct possibility," her friend conceded with a heavy sigh. Her hands moved over her console, opening new channels, accessing new databases with the quick efficiency of long practice. "The man Max described—the one who might have come to his door—that's classified information territory. Which means this involves Starfleet Intelligence at some level. Which means we're already in deeper than we thought."
"And Admiral Brezhnova," Daffy added, beginning to pace again. "This all points back to her. Everything circles back to her."
"Max's description of Barilon was a surprise." Uhura pulled up the meager scraps of information Jeremy Paget had been able to pull together for them thus far on the Haven who had commissioned the rings. The file was frustratingly thin—just basic registry information and a notation that the individual was "presumed deceased." "Doesn't sound like this Barilon was a lovelorn admirer, or a Haven trader trying to build a tasty bribe for career advancement."
Gollub snorted. "Don’t stop there. This guy doesn’t sound like any Haven I’ve ever met. Period.”
“Pretty peculiar,” the Communications Officer granted.
“First…” The chemist held up a finger to number the oddities. “He’s out in public… completely lost his cool… noticeably nervous…”
Uhura nodded. “Scared stiff, I’d say.”
“And what’s the only thing that seems to scare Havens?”
“Other much, much richer much, much, much more powerful Havens,” her friend concluded. The chemist put up another finger. “Next, he lays out a ton of money on a commission that has no discernible profit in it for him. Just wants to send a message.”
“So he says,” the Communications Officer confirmed.
“Lots of cheaper ways to do that, right?”
Her friend gave a half-laugh as she gestured at the boards in front of her. “Oh, yeah.”
Gollub held up another finger. “Then he gets rattled and dead-losses all his advance money to Max on the spot.”
“Won’t even take the samples for what he might be able to re-coup for selling them.”
“Have you ever seen or heard on a Haven acting like that?”
Uhura shook her head. “It’s behavior so out of character that even leaving aside everything else we’ve discovered – it would be frightening.”
“Havens don't panic. They don't run.” Gollub shook her head. "But this one did. Which means he was up against something or someone that couldn't be negotiated with. Something that scared him to death."
“Barilon and Brezhnova…" Uhura mused, studying the screen. "They had some kind of connection. It seems like Barilon was trying to help her. He was trying to send her a message, give her evidence of something. And he disappeared—or was disappeared—trying to do it. If there's any chance he's still alive, any chance the information he was trying to convey is still relevant—"
"Then we need to find him," Gollub finished, her voice hard with determination. "Or find out what happened to him. We need to know what was stolen. We need to know who the hunter is."
The Communications Officer turned and gave her friend a wary frown. “I hope this is not heading in the direction I think you’re heading…”
The chemist made a sour face and sighed. “We’re going to have to talk with the Havens.”
Uhura gave her a look that communicated that there was still time to change course. “Exactly what Havens are you talking about?”
“Our Havens,” the chemist replied stubbornly. “Your Haven. The Havens that we know.”
The Communications Officer shook her head and rolled her eyes, but her hands had already started to work her boards. “They ain’t gonna like this,” she warned. “Not one bit.”
"Not a quarter as much as I don't like it," her friend confirmed, wrapping her arms around herself as if suddenly cold. She then shook her head at the screen that had so recently held an image of Chekov's uncle. "Oy gevalt! Sweet, talented, generous, friendly Uncle Max! What the hell have you gotten us all into?"