Return to Valjiir Stories
Return to Valjiir Continnum
The energy weapon's cold barrel pressed into Chekov's ribs as Rev Marken steered him through Nazanin's manufacturing district. Each step sent a sharp reminder through his bones—one wrong move and the weapon would burn through flesh and organs before he could even cry out.
The district sprawled before them like a bizarre collection of life-sized dioramas on the galactic history of industrial progress that some careless visitor had overturned then ignorantly re-assembled as quickly as possible, mismatching all the component parts. Ancient stone chimneys belched black smoke into the amber sky while sleek hover-transports coasted silently between them, their antigrav fields humming a discordant harmony with the clank and grind of primitive machinery. Converted warehouses rose like metal-plated monuments to Urada's schizophrenic embrace of galactic commerce—half-medieval stonework crowned with gleaming sensor arrays and force field generators.
"Keep walking, Federation," Marken murmured, his Haven accent turning each syllable into a velvet-wrapped blade. "My employer has been so eager to meet the famous Pasol Chavask."
Chekov focused on memorizing each step of their route. Three blocks from Central Square—past the textile mill where a broken hover-lift hung like a dead insect against crumbling brick walls. Left at the spice processing plant that reeked of Andorian turmeric so pungent it made his eyes water. The acrid smell clung to his nostrils. If he could somehow signal the others, leave some trace...
Their destination looked like every other battered warehouse in the district—rust-stained walls that had seen decades of Urada's harsh seasons, windows dark with industrial grime. When Marken pressed his palm to what appeared to be a simple door latch, however, Chekov heard the telltale hum of high-grade security systems powering up.
Scanners. Identity verification. Possibly weapons targeting systems.
The door whispered open to reveal an airlock that definitely hadn't rolled off any Uradan assembly line.
"After you," Marken gestured him forward with his weapon in a razor-edged imitation of courtesy.
Stepping through the airlock was like entering another world—or perhaps another century entirely. The warehouse interior embodied Urada's cultural whiplash in its most extreme form. Unlike the crude attempts at modernization
Chekov had seen throughout the city, however, this space was resplendent with the gleam of sophisticated taste and unlimited resources.
Rough-hewn stone walls — probably original to the building — had been lined with gleaming duranium panels. Deflector shields, Chekov realized with a sinking heart. Military grade, judging by the clearly audible harmonics. A top-of-the-line replicator unit sat beside hand-carved Uradan furniture that looked like it belonged in a medieval castle. Priceless Orion silk tapestries hung beside local artwork rendered in simple charcoals and pencils. The lighting was deliberately dim, casting long shadows that seemed to move with their own sinister life.
Everything was coordinated with a shockingly striking sense of taste. Unlike the local merchants who had little understanding of what they bought let alone the ability to coordinate it into a coherent design motif, the person who had put together this interior did so to produce a very calculated effect. There was a general theme of gothic romance meets galactic sophistication with brilliantly sardonic touches of sophisticated humor that commented on familiar tropes without ever descending into self-parody.
The bulk of the aesthetic genius of the design was completely lost on Chekov, however. To the navigator, the entire setup looked like the sort of place Count Dracula might choose for a vacation rental on Wrigley's Pleasure Planet—equal parts menacing and ridiculous.
"Impressive little lair, isn't it?"
The voice emerged from those very shadows—rich, cultured, and slightly tinged with a note of smug amusement. Gol Tarilon stepped into the light like a stage performer making his grand entrance. He, like the Haven ambassador, had a very aristocratic appearance. The two had the same golden skin and chiseled features. Tarilion, in Chekov's opinon, might have the more striking appearance. He was taller and had a distinctive silver streak running through his black hair like lightning frozen in time.
"It's... uhm… very nice," the Russian managed, employing the modicum of diplomacy seemed appropriate when one was held at weapon-point in a madman's lair.
Tarilon sniffed diffidently. "No need to be rude."
This Haven was imbued with the sort of arrogant self-confidence confidence Chekov associated with the race. However, there was a difference to him. Whereas Lane Gage radiated prideful disdain beneath his polished exterior, Tarilon seemed to genuinely relish creating a sense of menace. In a very un-Haven-like manner, his attitude towards this encounter wasn't entirely businesslike. There were suspicious dashes of the theatrical about it as if for him it served as an entertainment as well.
"Please, sit." Tarilon gestured toward an ornate chair that looked suspiciously throne-like. "I've heard so much about the legendary Pasol Chavask. The merchant who outsmarted both a Kelincar warlord and our own dear Lane Gage. Most impressive."
Chekov stubbornly remained standing. "You must have me confused with someone else."
"Oh, I doubt that very much." Tarilon began circling him with patient intensity. Each footstep echoed in the cavernous space. "You see, I make it my business to know everyone who might interfere with my operations. And you, my dear Pavel Andreievich Chekov of the U.S.S. Enterprise, are definitely someone who might interfere."
The use of his full name — his real name — caused the navigator to wince internally, but he kept his expression carefully neutral. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Come now, Lieutenant Commander." Tarilon's laugh was genuinely delighted, as if Chekov had just told an amusing joke. "Your accent alone gives you away—that distinctive Russian pronunciation that no amount of language training can quite eliminate. Rather charming, actually. Plus, there's the matter of your companions."
He ticked off points on his fingers like a professor delivering a lecture. "The brilliant chemist who's been purchasing moritite-laced beauty products with the focused intensity of someone conducting covert analysis. The communications officer who's been making eyes at Tomor Rand while simultaneously scanning every frequency she can access. The security chief who thinks he's successfully impersonating a Klingon — truly entertaining, that one."
The Russian's frown deepened with each revelation. How completely had their cover been blown? And for how long? Had they been mere dancing for Tarilon's amusement since their arrival on Urada?
"Did you really think you could fool a Haven?" Tarilon's tone was almost fond.
Chekov bit his lower lip. "Even if what you say were true, what do you want from me?"
"Ah, now we're getting somewhere." Tarilon settled into his own chair—an elaborate black leather wingback studded with what looked like genuine ebony gems. "You see, I have a problem. Your friend Lane Gage is putting his annoyingly persistent nose into my business. Your presence here serves as rather compelling evidence that the CEO himself has called in Federation assistance. That's... inconvenient."
The Russian narrowed his eyes. "Perhaps if your business practices were more ethical—"
"Ethical?" Tarilon's eyebrows rose in surprise. "My dear boy, everything I do is perfectly ethical by Haven standards. I acquire goods through entirely legitimate means and sell them at competitive prices. The fact that my acquisition methods might seem questionable to Federation sensibilities is hardly my concern."
As Tarilon spoke, Chekov let his eyes wander the room, creating a mental inventory of what might prove to be useful components should an opportunity arise for him to attempt an escape. There were storage containers marked with symbols he didn't recognize — possibly Orion, perhaps Denebian… a sophisticated communications array that could probably reach half the quadrant… and there, partially hidden behind an ornate decorative screen, crates clearly marked with Klingon military designations.
When one finally ceased to be distracted by all the ominous gothic splendor of the dazzling architectural layout, the room's contents spoke eloquently to someone who could decipher the tale they told.
"You are raiding other traders," Chekov concluded, his voice flat with certainty. "That is how you can sell at prices that should result in massive losses. You steal the merchandise first."
"Such an ugly word, 'steal.'" Tarilon's mock offense was perfectly performed, complete with a delicate shudder. "I prefer the term "aggressive acquisition." The universe provides opportunities. I am simply enterprising enough to seize them. If these other traders were truly competent, it wouldn't be so supremely simple to... relieve them of excess inventory."
"And the moritite?"
Tarilon's smile widened. "Now that's where things get truly interesting. Do you know what moritite becomes when properly refined and combined with certain other compounds? Something far more valuable than jewelry or beauty products, I assure you."
Explosives. Despite his best efforts to remain impassive, a small gasp escaped Chekov's lips. Refined moritite could be weaponized into some of the most devastating explosives known to Federation science. In sufficient quantities...
"One can practically see the gears turning behind those enchanting big brown eyes of yours," Tarilon tilted his head with a very patronizing smile. He gestured airily toward his stockpile like a merchant showing off his finest wares. "The galaxy is absolutely full of conflicts, Lieutenant Commander. Wars require weapons, and weapons require materials. I simply provide a service to those willing to pay premium prices."
The Russian growled, "You're running weapons to enemies of the Federation."
"I'm vending products to customers with excellent credit ratings. Their political affiliations are none of my concern." Tarilon stood and moved to a wall panel, activating a display that showed shipping routes throughout the sector—a spider web of commerce with Urada at its center. "Unfortunately now I have a problem. Your investigation threatens to expose my entire operation. Lane Gage is already suspicious, and if he reports back to the Monolem family..."
"You intend to use me as leverage against him?" Chekov couldn't keep the disbelief from his voice.
"Precisely! You see, despite his protestations to the contrary, our dear Lane has developed something of a soft spot for your little crew. Oh, he'd never admit it—Havens don't like to acknowledge emotional attachments that might compromise their business judgment. But I've made it my business to study him, and the signs are unmistakable."
Chekov blinked, trying to process this assertion against the evidence of every interaction he'd ever had with the Haven Ambassador. "I think you must be mistaken. He does not like me. At all."
"Oh, really?" Tarilon's expression shifted, becoming suddenly, genuinely dangerous. "Then I'm afraid your investigation may come to a rather permanent end. Along with you, of course."
His tone remained conversational, as if discussing dinner plans rather than murder. "Nothing personal, you understand. Simply good business practice."
"The others will come looking for me," the navigator asserted, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.
"Oh, I certainly hope so." Tarilon's menacing smile returned full force. "The lovely Lieutenant Uhura, in particular. I understand she and Tomor Rand have grown quite... close. It would be such a tragedy if something happened to her while he was trying to play hero. The guilt might drive him to make some very poor decisions indeed."
The casual threat against his crewmates infuriated Chekov even more than anything the Haven had said or done thus far. His hands clenched into fists before he forced himself to relax them. Getting emotional would only give Tarilon more weapons to use against them all.
"Of course," Tarilon continued, settling back into his chair, "there is another possibility. You could simply forget what you've seen here. File a report stating that the trade war is an internal Haven matter—which it is, technically—and recommend that the Federation withdraw from the situation. Everyone goes home happy, I continue my business, and nobody has to get hurt."
"Except for the people who will die from the weapons you're selling," Chekov said through gritted teeth.
"People die in wars regardless of where their weapons come from, Lieutenant Commander. At least mine are of superior quality — they'll die more efficiently." Tarilon moved to another panel. "Ah, it looks like your friends are starting to worry about you."
A holoscreen materialized in the air, showing the inn's common room with crystal clarity. Chekov could see Paget and Uhura speaking urgently with the innkeeper. Uhura's hands moved in sharp, agitated gestures while Jeremy's shoulders were set in a way that suggested he was prepared to tear someone limb from limb.
To be forced to observe his fellow officers' distress while he stood here a powerless prisoner was agonizing.
"They'll contact the Enterprise," Chekov said, injecting as much confidence as he could muster into his voice.
"Will they? I think not." Tarilon's tone was insufferably smug. "After all, they're on an undercover mission. Calling for help would destroy their cover, wouldn't it? No, I think they'll try to handle this themselves. Admirable, really, if rather predictably foolish."
He steepled his fingers like a chess master two moves from an inevitable checkmate. "You know, I've always found humans fascinating. So emotional, so driven by these concepts of loyalty and honor that often work directly against your own best interests. Havens understand that business is business—nothing personal, just profit and loss calculations. But humans... you make everything personal."
Something in his tone — a combination of genuine curiosity and cold calculation—set Chekov's teeth on edge.
"Perhaps that's why humans have allies," he said, meeting Tarilon's gaze directly, "and Havens have only customers."
"Touché, Lieutenant Commander," the Haven congratulated him, laughing as he applauded lightly. "I can see why Lane finds you so... interesting." Tarilon stood, brushing imaginary dust from his expensive clothes. "Very well. You've given me sufficient amusement for the moment. Marken will show you to your accommodations while I consider my options."
The ornate main parlor of the Golden Niran inn screamed wealth and desperation in equal measure. Rich Vulcan tapestries draped stone walls that had stood for centuries while imported Denebian furniture sat arranged around a holographic art display that flickered with pretentious sophistication. It was Urada in microcosm—a backwater world clutching at galactic relevance, drowning in its own provincial ambitions.
Jeremy Paget's leather-gloved hands twisted in the embroidered lapels of Dafuv Sanzint's expensive tunic, hauling the portly innkeeper closer until their faces were inches apart. Behind the pretended Klingon snarl he wore like armor, the Security Officer's was filled with cold calculation. Chekov. Missing. Taken by a Haven.
"A Haven?" The growl that escaped his throat was half-performance, half-genuine fury. His costume — the leather baldric crossing his chest, the machete-like weapon at his hip — suddenly felt less like a disguise and more like war gear.
Uhura stood rigid beside him, her own guise as the submissive freed servant fraying at its edges, her dark eyes flashing with barely contained alarm. "Are you certain?"
Sanzint's face had gone from its usual florid pink to an alarming shade of purple. "How could I mistake such a dreadful occurrence? Oh, the shame—first the robbery, now this! All muscles and a shiny head, like a walking battering ram!"
Paget exchanged a sharp looks with Uhura, seeing his own recognition reflected in her widening eyes.
"Tomor?" Uhura breathed.
"Surely not," he replied automatically, though there were few others who could fit the innkeeper's description. Was it actually possible that the Havens could stoop so low?
"No." Uhura's voice went flat as she pointed toward the inn's entrance. "Tomor."
Paget's mouth went dry. Silhouetted against the harsh afternoon sun stood Lane Gage and Tomor Rand. Gage, as usual, cut a striking figure in his leather jacket and suede pants, his golden Haven skin catching the light. He looked no more like a dastardly kidnapper than he had in the half a lifetime's worth of wild parties and sweet bacchanals during which Jeremy had come to know the dealer so well… or at least thought he had. Beside his employer, Tomor Rand looked like what he was—muscle wrapped in black studded leather, a fat cigar clenched between his teeth like a threat.
Paget's grip on the innkeeper's tunic tightened involuntarily. Years of knowledge these two taught him to read the subtle signs: Gage's calculatedly relaxed posture, the way Tomor's eyes swept the room for threats, the deliberate timing of their arrival. They knew exactly what was happening here.
"Jeremy, we must talk." Gage's voice carried that infuriating Haven mix of apology and command, as if inconveniencing others was simply the cost of doing business.
The casual use of his real name in front of the innkeeper made Paget's blood sing with rage.
"Gage," he barked, letting his Klingon persona carry the full weight of his fury. "We have just been told that Master Chavosk was forcibly taken from this place by a Haven." He ground out Chekov's cover name weightily, each syllable a warning.
"About that..." Gage looked at the trembling innkeeper and sighed. "Is there somewhere we can have something approaching a civilized conversation?"
"Upstairs," Jer growled, turning on his heel.
Behind them, Sanzint's voice rose in panicked excitement. "I will alert the authorities about this most unfortunate incident—"
"No." Uhura's hand on the innkeeper's shoulder was gentle but firm. "Not yet. I think we may be able to handle it ourselves."
The sitting room still bore the scars of the previous night's robbery. Furniture had been righted but not replaced, and the violation lingered in the air like a bad smell. Afternoon light streamed through tall windows, casting prison-bar shadows across the checkered marble floor.
"Daffy?" Uhura's voice echoed through the space.
Silence answered her.
"Oh hell no!" Jer's Klingon persona evaporated as he bolted for the bedrooms, his boots pounding against marble.
"Not Daffy too!" Uhura's professional composure fractured as she searched the sitting room with desperate efficiency. Tomor Rand moved to help her, his massive frame surprisingly gentle as he checked behind overturned furniture.
"We seem to have caught you at a bad time," Gage observed, finding a seat for himself in a brown leather chair near the ornate stone fireplace.
"Nothing," Paget reported, his voice tight with controlled fury. He positioned himself by the window, letting the afternoon light silhouette his muscular frame.
Heavy footsteps echoed from the corridor. Dafuv Sanzint appeared in the doorway like a harbinger of doom. His florid face was flushed with exertion and terror. His pudgy hands clutched a folded piece of parchment.
"Master Kring! Mistress Uhn!" he wheezed, struggling to catch his breath. "A message... for the Great Pasol Chavask... but since he is not here..." He thrust the parchment toward them with trembling fingers.
Paget took the scroll with practiced calm, fishing a coin from his belt.
"Hopefully good news?"
"Hopefully," Jer replied, though he already knew it wasn't.
The Security Officer's jaw tightened with each line, his dark eyes scanning the careful script that spelled out Renalli's demands.
"It's from Renalli's people," he said quietly. "They have Dasha—Daffy. They want Pasol to withdraw all charges, publicly apologize for 'his crimes on Kelincar,' and pay substantial compensation. If he doesn't comply within twenty-four hours..." He let the threat hang in the air.
Uhura sank into the leather loveseat as if her strings had been cut. "Damn. That's the very last thing we need right now."
Paget crossed his arms and fixed Gage with a glare. "So who's this Haven who's kidnapped Chekov? Assuming that it wasn't you?"
"Me?" The dealer tapped his chest with genuine surprise. "Dear boy, why for the love of sweet Devri would I do a stupid thing like that?"
"I don't know." Paget's eyes narrowed. "To be a bastard? To interfere with our mission? For the same reason you were flirting with exposing our identities at the Guild Hall Ball last night?"
"Oh." Gage dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand before pouring himself a glass of fruit juice from a pitcher that had been left on a side table. "That was just a bit of fun and games."
Uhura gave him an un-smile. "Ha, ha, ha."
Jer put his hands on his hips. "If you have useful information — spill it."
Gage took a sip of his drink and then put it down very deliberately.
"Gol Tarilon," he revealed. "A rogue Haven trader who's been systematically undermining legitimate Haven commerce in this sector. He's the real source of all the troubles on Urada... and the source of the discomfort that prompted CEO Monolem to contact the Federation." His jaw tightened — the first fissure in his urbane facade. "He's the one behind your robbery last night."
"You know about the robbery?" Paget shot Uhura a dirty look.
"We have our sources." Tomor's voice rumbled through the room like distant thunder. He pulled Uhura closer, his massive arm both protective and possessive.
"Wait." Uhura held up a hand. "Do you have something to say to me, Jeremy Paget?"
The Security Officer cleared his throated and reconsidered, much to his chagrin, that, yes, Tomor Rand could have a wide variety of sources of information about the robbery that did not include Starfleet officers. "No, I don't."
"No, you do not," his fellow officer confirmed.
"The frame job on Renalli was sophisticated but sloppy," the Haven enforcer continued. "Too many convenient pieces of evidence, too perfect a setup. Probably a rush job Tarilon set up on the spur of the moment at the ball when he recognized your team as Federation agents."
The casual admission dealt the Security officer an unexpected blow. They'd been made—not just suspected, but identified and targeted. "You think he saw through us that quickly?"
Rand nodded. "Your cover was designed to fool Uradans, not rogue Havens."
"It makes me wonder why we weren't given covers designed to fool rogue Havens…" Uhura frowned deeply. "… since it seems like your government knew there was one here."
"That is a very, very interesting question." Gage toasted the Communication Officer's perception. "It is now clearly evident that Gol Tarilon is the reason why we have all been summoned to this tacky little backwater. However, the CEO called in help from the Federation because there was at first some doubt that the trade war here was solely the work of a rogue Haven agent. As you have seen, there is the Kelicarian merchant, Yameen Renalli at work, actively manipulating the markets. Through random chance, your Mr. Chekov had a connection to him through previous undercover work he did on Kelicar."
"That we all did," Uhura corrected pointedly. The Kelicar mission had been her show as much as anyone's, and she wasn't about to be written out of the story.
"Most memorably — yes." Gage's mouth quirked with rueful but forever unspoken acknowledgment of how thoroughly the Federation team had outmaneuvered him on that occasion. "That makes the selection of your particular team remarkably fortuitous. The CEO felt that securing the Federation's cooperation for a two-pronged and independent investigation of this matter would be the most discreet approach. You've seen how the natives feel about us here."
Paget's laugh was caustic. "Drooling goggle-eyed worship?"
"Just so," Gage agreed without a trace of modesty. "That is a relationship the Haven Trading Empire would like to preserve."
"For purely business reasons," Uhura said, sarcasm dripping from every word.
"As you say." The dealer lifted his glass again to her accuracy. "In case your half of the mission met with failure in any way..."
"...Your asses were covered," Jer concluded. The beauty of the Haven strategy was breathtaking in its cynicism.
"Use Starfleet as expendable assets, then disavow us if things went wrong."
Tomor made a gesture that the Security Officer interpreted as "bulls-eye."
Gage refilled his glass with deliberate care. "It's quite important that it not appear that we do not trust the Uradans—particularly their merchant class. The exposure of a spying mission initiated with the full knowledge and approval of the Haven Trading Empire that infiltrated the very heart of the most important trader's guild on the planet in the largest and most important city on the planet would be devastating to trade relations."
The politics of it made Paget's head spin. Layers upon layers of deception, with everyone playing multiple angles. "And that is what Gol Tarilon is threatening to do now that he has Chekov—the great 'Pasol Chavask' -- in his hot little golden hands?"
"Precisely."
"Damn." Paget felt the peril of the situation mounting with each passing moment. Two missing team members, a rogue Haven trader, and a political situation that could destroy the Federation-Haven alliance…
Uhura turned to Tomor. "Why weren't we told any of this from the beginning?"
"We weren't told any of this." Rand shrugged. "Go investigate a trade war. Don't talk to the Feds. Period."
"It's the Haven way," Gage explained with maddening calm. "Not putting ugly suspicions about other Havens out at the onset of an investigative mission avoids scandal and loss of face if they turn out not to be true."
Paget felt his temper fraying like an old rope. "That's very inconvenient and very, very, very dangerous."
"Yes. Very," Gage agreed readily. "Adds an element of suspense to it all, though, you must admit."
The nonchalant admission of institutional recklessness made Jer want to throttle someone. Preferably someone Haven.
"I am sooo not loving this." He shook his head. "I guess now, though, we've got the all clear from our respective governments to cooperate?"
Tomor's taciturn features cracked in what might have been a smile. "Smoothly transitioning from 'cover our asses' to 'save our asses' mode."
"Initial assessment?" Paget queried his fellow security professional.
"Tarilon's operation will be well-defended and carefully hidden," Rand replied, his deep voice carrying the authority of untold decades of experience. "He's arrogant, though—typical of someone who thinks he's outsmarted the system for so long. He'll want to interrogate your officer personally, which means keeping him comfy… at least temporarily."
"And Renalli's people?" Uhura asked.
"Less sophisticated but more desperate," Paget replied, his security training kicking in. "They'll be easier to locate but potentially more unpredictable. A cornered amateur can be more dangerous than a confident professional."
The tactical situation was nightmarish —two separate hostile forces, each holding a team member, each with different motivations and capabilities. It was like playing three-dimensional chess blindfolded, high, and drunk – which admittedly Jer had done before… and even won quite a few times…
Gage spread his hands with a dramatic flourish. "And now... we make our plans."
Lieutenant Daphne Gollub of the U.S.S. Enterprise sat on the grimy floor of the storage room where Yameen's henchmen had locked her, her back against a pile of grain sacks. She wearily blew a sweaty curl that had strayed from her ruined updo from her be-grimed forehead. Her dress – a medieval style gold gown with a darker gold pattern on its full skirt that was a crucial part of her disguise as the wife of wealthy merchant Pasol Chavosk -- was stained and torn. The elaborate jewelry that had completed her cover identity lay scattered somewhere in the maze of corridors where Yameen's thugs had dragged her, unconscious and helpless. All except—
Her fingers found the delicate perfume vial still dangling from its emerald ribbon around her neck. And deep in her hidden pocket, miraculously intact, the small jar of beauty cream she'd purchased in the bazaar that morning—back when her greatest concern had been maintaining her cover story, not surviving the next hour.
"Jer thought I was crazy to keep this." Gollub smiled as she held the jar up to the light. The pale green substance inside seemed to shimmer slightly in the dim light filtering through a high, barred window. "Crazy like a fox I am."
Moritite traces. Unmistakable. The molecular structure would be unstable if properly agitated.
The chemist nodded in satisfaction. "I told Pavel that furshulgginer stuff can be used as an explosive in a pinch." Gollub looked around the storage room. "Well, this is a pinch if ever I saw one."
"But how much do I need?" she whispered to herself, her speeding through chemical equations. "And what can I use as a catalyst?"
Her eyes swept the room. Surrounding her were nothing but grain sacks, wooden crates, and a few rusted metal tools. Then she spotted it - a small bottle of what looked like cleaning solvent, probably left behind by whoever used this space before Yameen's people claimed it.
Bingo.
She uncorked the solvent and took a careful sniff. Acidic - it would work.
"Sometimes, I amaze even myself," she observed, gathering her ingredients.
Her fingers worked quickly, mixing precise amounts of the beauty crème with the solvents in the jar's lid. The mixture began to bubble slightly.
Not enough for a major explosion, she calculated, but enough to blow the lock off that door.
Daffy pressed herself against the far wall, holding the makeshift explosive at arm's length toward the door's heavy wooden bar.
"In three... two... one..."
The blast was smaller than she'd hoped but louder than she'd expected. Wood splintered and the bar cracked, hanging askew. Shouts erupted from elsewhere in the building.
"What was that?"
"Check the prisoner!"
Daffy kicked the weakened door hard, and it swung open. She grabbed one of the rusted tools - a short metal rod - and stepped into the corridor beyond.
The building was a maze of corridors and rooms, clearly some kind of abandoned warehouse. Footsteps pounded toward her location from multiple directions. She chose a path that seemed to lead toward what she hoped was an exit, her heart thudding in her chest as she ran.
"She's loose!" a voice bellowed behind her. "Find her!"
The chemist burst through a side door into the night air. The alley beyond was barely wider than her outstretched arms, hemmed in by towering buildings on both sides. She could hear her pursuers crashing through the warehouse behind her.
Left or right? She chose left, running toward what looked like a slightly wider street ahead.
The narrow alley opened onto a broader street - though "street" was a generous term for the rutted, garbage-strewn passage between ramshackle buildings. A few inhabitants of this district watched her with curious but wary eyes from doorways and windows. Most quickly retreated inside when they heard the shouting of her pursuers echoing from the alley behind her.
Daffy's medieval-style gown was not designed for running. The full skirt kept tangling around her legs, and the tight bodice made it hard to breathe deeply. She hiked up the skirt with one hand, clutching her makeshift weapon with the other.
"There!" One of Yameen's men had emerged from the alley. "This way!"
She ducked down another side passage. This one was so narrow that she had to turn sideways to navigate between the buildings. Behind her, she could hear the men arguing about which way she'd gone.
For the next several minutes, Gollub played a desperate game of hide-and-seek through the labyrinthine district. She pressed herself into doorways when she heard footsteps approaching, slipped between market stalls when her pursuers got too close. Once she even hid behind a tethered pack animal while two of Yameen's henchmen ran past.
When she came upon the next branching pathway, she chose left again, running toward what might be a wider street ahead. The narrow passage opened onto a broader thoroughfare.
This was the true face of Nazanin, stripped of the golden facades and merchant prosperity that defined the upper city. Here, in the tenement district, the planet's famous wealth had never trickled down. Instead, the street was a bizarre collision of worlds and centuries. Broken hover-car parts were scattered like metallic bones alongside steaming piles of animal dung from the draft beasts that still pulled salvaged carts through the district.
Ancient stone buildings rose on either side, their medieval architecture now studded with scavenged off-world technology. Jury-rigged atmospheric processors coughed black smoke from primitive chimneys, while communication arrays sprouted from rooftops like chrome and copper weeds. It was quintessentially Uradan — a civilization that prized galactic technology but understood only half of it, creating a patchwork world that looked like a historical drama invaded by a badly organized science fiction film.
The chemist's worst moment came when she found herself trapped in a dead-end alley with two of her pursuers approaching from the only exit. Thinking quickly, she climbed onto a pile of discarded crates and managed to scramble up to a low rooftop. The men below cursed and shouted, but the building was too tall for them to follow easily.
From the rooftop, she could see the better part of the city in the distance - the Golden Niran inn where her teammates would be looking for her by now. Unfortunately, between her and safety lay block after block of this dangerous maze.
As time passed, more of Yameen's people seemed to join the search. Daffy began to realize that her initial escape had bought her time, but not safety. They knew this area better than she did, and she was beginning to tire.
Her gown had torn in several places during her climb, and she'd lost one of her decorative hair pins. Worse, she was starting to recognize some of the same streets and alleys - she might be going in circles.
Oy vey! she thought, scratching her head. Remember – you're a scientist -- Think like Spock. How would he get out of this? He would pull out a communicator and say "Bwana! Ruthie! Beam my cute green tukhus out of this hell hole!" That's what that smart fellow would do…!
Gollub frowned. The problem was orienting herself. In the wealthier part of the city, she could locate the prominent buildings and main thoroughfares. Here in the tenement district, though, everything looked the same - narrow passages between crumbling structures.
It's not a Spock I need to be, she reflected, putting hands on her hips. I need to make like mini-Spock and start with the navigating…
Wait - she could still see the distant towers of the guild hall and the inn. If she could just keep those landmarks in sight and work her way toward them...
She had just decided on a route when she heard the unmistakable sound of coordinated pursuit - Yameen's men were no longer searching randomly. They'd organized into a proper manhunt, with some of them trying to drive her toward others positioned to cut off her escape routes.
Daffy broke into a run again, no longer caring about stealth. Speed was her only hope now. She could hear them behind her, closer than before. Her breath came in gasps, and her legs burned with exhaustion.
The street ahead opened into a small square - and there, at the far end, she could see two familiar figures: a tall, muscular Haven in black leather and a woman in brown servant's garb.
"Tomor!" she shouted. "Uhura!"
Tomor Rand didn't hesitate. The moment he spotted Daffy's pursuers emerging from the alley behind her, he stepped forward.
"Gentlemen," he said in a voice that carried easily across the square, "I suggest you reconsider."
The lead pursuer, a burly Uradan with a scarred face, sneered. "Haven or not, there's only one of you and four of us."
Tomor's smile was not pleasant. "I only count three who are still conscious."
As if to prove his point, one of the men behind the leader suddenly crumpled to the ground. The others spun around to find Uhura behind them, having somehow circled around during the confrontation. She held a stunner in her hand.
"The lady is quite handy with her little gun," Tomor warned with lethal mildness.
The remaining two men looked between the unconscious companion, the armed woman, and the Haven who stood perfectly relaxed despite being obviously dangerous. After a moment of calculation, they decided discretion was the better part of valor.
"This isn't over," the leader growled as they retreated.
"Pray that it is," Rand advised them.