"I don't have a great feeling about this plan," Jeremy Paget muttered, gripping his phaser as he checked it for the third time. The building tension coiled in his muscles like a spring wound too tight, adding a dangerous growl to his voice that made his Klingon disguise disturbingly authentic.

He crouched beside Lane Gage behind a towering stack of shipping containers, their improvised cover reeking of machine oil and something unidentifiably organic. Across the debris-strewn thoroughfare, Gol Tarilon's headquarters loomed-a warehouse whose shabby exterior couldn't quite mask the subtle blue glow of energy shields or the nearly inaudible hum of surveillance equipment.

"Perfectly understandable," the dealer replied with maddening calm, his manicured fingers patting down his leather jacket to locate a scanner no larger than a credit chit. "If I were the one about to charge headlong into near-to-certain death, I'd have my qualms as well."

Paget shot his ally a narrow look. "Thanks, Gage. That's exactly the morale boost I needed."

"Think nothing of it, Jeremy," the Haven responded without a trace of irony, his attention already shifting to scan the rooftops around them with professional detachment.

Paget suppressed a sigh. The cultural imperative that drove Havens to maintain an air of unflappable superiority made it impossible to tell how much of Lane Gage’s near militant nonchalance about his participation in this rescue mission was real and how much was just for effect.

"Tarilon's security is Haven-designed," Gage continued, studying his scanner's readouts. "Rev Marken may be competent, but he's not Tomor Rand."

Despite everything, Paget found himself grinning. "Who is?"

"No one," Gage confirmed, and for the first time, genuine warmth crept into his voice. He aimed his device at the building's facade. "Fortunately for us, Gol has always valued style over substance."

"So you can handle your part?"

Gage's scanner painted the building's defenses in stark detail: energy barriers calibrated for local threats, motion sensors positioned to catch ordinary thieves, biometric locks programmed for industrial espionage. Competent, but not paranoid. Professional, but not personal.

"This setup might stop a curious Uradan trader or ambitious local criminal," he said with growing confidence. "But it wasn't designed to keep out a fellow Haven. As you humans say - a piece of pastry."

"Cake," Paget corrected automatically, his hands busy checking the archaic Klingon blade strapped to his side.

Gage made a dismissive gesture. "We'll eat later."

Reasoning that this wasn’t the time or place for a cross-cultural lesson on metaphors, Paget shook his head and let the comment pass. Feeling the adrenaline of the oncoming action coursing through his veins, Paget studied the building's exterior-a ramshackle warehouse facade that couldn't quite hide the gleam of energy shields and the subtle hum of advanced surveillance equipment.

"What about the backup plan?" he asked.

The Haven blinked at him. "Backup plan?"

Paget’s stomach twisted a little.  "We do have one, don't we?"

"Oh, that." Gage patted the security officer on the back. "I'm certain if all begins to go awry, you'll think of something, dear boy."

Paget closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer to whatever deities protected security officers from Haven overconfidence and underplanning. He was beginning to understand why Starfleet-Haven joint operations were rarer than hen’s teeth.

Mastering his mounting dread, he dropped into a runner's crouch, every muscle coiled for action. "Ready?"

Gage shrugged with the casual indifference of a man ordering breakfast. "No time like the present, I suppose."

The transformation was breathtaking in its completeness.

The controlled, analytical Starfleet officer that was Jeremy Paget simply ceased to exist, replaced by something primal and terrifying. He threw back his head and released a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the warehouses - a sound that carried all the fury of a Klingon warrior who had just discovered his valor questioned and his enemies within reach.

"HONOR-LESS HAVEN BASTARDS!" he bellowed, charging toward the main entrance with his blade gleaming overhead like a promise of savage death.

His boots thundered against the broken pavement as he kicked aside debris, hacking at anything that dared impede his path. When he switched to Klingonese, the words that poured from his throat were so anatomically creative and linguistically vicious that even the universal translator seemed hesitant to pass them on.

"TARILON!" His voice rebounded off the surrounding buildings like thunder. "Face me, you gutless coward! You dare lay hands on my employer? I'll feast on your still-beating heart and use your bones for toothpicks!"

The effect was instantaneous and electric. Energy weapons hummed to lethal life as Tarilon's security team scrambled to meet what appeared to be a psychotic Klingon warrior in the grip of battle madness. Rev Marken's voice crackled over their comm system with barely controlled panic: "All units, contain the hostile! Don't let him reach the main facility!"

Paget, however, was not trying to reach the facility. He was a lodestone, drawing every armed guard away from it. He vaulted a low wall like a panther on the prowl, landing in a combat crouch before exploding upward to meet the first wave of security forces. His blade sang through the air, deflecting energy blasts in showers of sparks while forcing the guards to spread out or risk being carved apart like holiday roasts.

"Send me more!" he roared in accented Standard, his voice carrying the guttural menace of a Klingon dialect. "Is this the best you have, Tarilon, you crawling, golden-assed son of a slave? My grandmother fights with more battle-lust, and she's been dead for thirty years!"

While Paget's one-man war drew every eye and weapon in the district, Lane Gage moved through the building's perimeter like a whisper of smoke.

Every system has its blind spot. Tomor Rand's maxim echoed in his mind as he worked his way along the building's edge, scanner in hand. He'd watched his security chief dissect supposedly impregnable installations with surgical precision on many an occasion.  However, actually being the one tasked with finding that crucial weakness made the job feel considerably more daunting.

Still, Rand had been supremely confident during their planning sessions. Tarilon's operation, for all its sophistication, had been assembled on a budget-using second-rate technology and without the obsessive attention to detail that characterized truly professional Haven installations. Rev Marken had designed his defenses to repel local threats such as thieves, industrial spies, or the occasional ambitious criminal. He hadn't planned for another Haven who knew exactly how such systems thought and breathed.

Gage's scanner finally gave him what he'd been searching for -- a service entrance whose energy signature showed the telltale fluctuations of cost-cutting measures. The biometric scanner was a generation old, the energy field powered by a backup generator rather than the main grid. The technology was professional enough to fool amateurs, vulnerable enough for someone who understood its genealogy.

From his jacket, Gage produced a device that looked like nothing more than a standard diagnostic tool - the kind any Haven technician might carry. This particular scanner-scrambler had, however, been modified by Tomor Rand himself, its circuits rewired to whisper the right lies to security systems that thought they were impregnable.

The energy field died with a soft sigh. The door slid open as silently as a conspirator's smile.

Inside, Tarilon's true nature was revealed in all its contradictory glory. The warehouse's shabby exterior gave way to a command center that might have looked at home on a Haven corporate flagship. Holographic displays painted the air with tactical readouts and financial projections while surveillance feeds from across the city flickered like electronic eyes. At the center of it all, carved from the warehouse's original structure like a jewel from rough stone, sat a luxuriously appointed office where Gol Tarilon held court behind a massive desk.

In front of him, restrained in a chair that faced the desk like a prisoner before a judge, sat Pavel Chekov.

The Russian looked the worse for wear - his medieval merchant's costume torn, his usually immaculate hair disheveled, a darkening bruise painted his left cheek in shades of purple and gold. Whether from interrogation or a failed escape attempt, the Federation officer bore the signs of someone who had refused to cooperate gracefully.

When Chekov spotted Gage's reflection in one of the monitors, he turned and actually growled at his would-be rescuer - a sound so authentically threatening that Gage found himself momentarily taken aback.

Excellent cover maintenance, even under duress. These Starfleet types weren't entirely hopeless.

"Lane Gage." Gol Tarilon swiveled his chair with melodramatic precision, his smile sharp enough to cut crystal. Everything about him screamed classic Haven breeding: the golden skin that seemed to glow with inner light, the obsidian-black eyes that missed nothing, the silver streak in his perfectly styled hair. His hand drifted toward the weapon at his hip before stopping - a gesture that spoke of caution rather than surrender.

"Not the most entertaining planet in the sector," Gage observed, settling into a black leather wingback chair as if he'd been invited for afternoon tea, "but kidnapping pretty boys seems a rather over the top cure for boredom. Don’t you think?"

Tarilon's laugh held genuine amusement. "I suppose introductions are unnecessary. We all know who everyone is here."

"Indeed. One of Kirk's little darlings." The dealer reached out to trace a finger down Chekov's cheek, then waggled it reprovingly when the young man jerked away. "Caused me quite a bother on Kelincar, didn't you?"

The Russian's eyes blazed with fury. "Gage, you treacherous Cossack!"

"He thinks you don't like him," Tarilon observed with the detached interest of a scientist studying an interesting specimen.

"Oh? I'm genuinely surprised." Gage gave an ironic half-laugh. "You know what Humans are like. Sometimes they really can’t tell."

"I assume you're here about the boy," Tarilon said, gesturing toward Chekov with a casually proprietary air that made the Russian growl with rage. "I was hoping we could arrange a small exchange. Nothing remarkable - just some minor adjustments to certain territorial arrangements."

"Territorial arrangements?" Gage's eyebrows rose in mock surprise. "Gol, you're talking like a common extortionist. Whatever would the Monolems think?"

The mention of the ruling family hit its target with surgical precision. Tarilon's casual facade splintered just enough to reveal a hint of desperation beneath - the look of a man who was gambling everything on a single throw and suspected for the first time that the dice might be loaded against him.

"The Monolems don't understand the opportunities out here," he said, his voice taking on adefensive edge. "They're too concerned with maintaining their precious Federation alliance to see the profits waiting to be harvested."

The dealer took a long moment to study his opponent, noting the family resemblance he'd always found irritating. People had been mistaking them for each other since childhood, despite what Gage considered obvious differences in bearing and character. He suspected Tarilon had hired Rev Marken precisely because the man's superficial resemblance to Tomor Rand would encourage similar confusion - a cheap way to borrow reputation he hadn't earned.

The whole sordid affair with Urada’s trade war was made infinitely more complicated by the fact that Gol Tarilon was his second cousin.

Family. They could complicate any situation, turn simple business into personal drama. As soon as he had learned Tarilon’s identity as the subject of the probe, Gage had understood why CEO Omm Monolem had chosen him for this mission - the family had to clean up after their own black sheep. It wouldn't be the first time Tarilon had strayed from acceptable business practices. From the looks of things at this juncture, though, it was going to be the last.

"So you thought you'd harvest them yourself?" His voice carried genuine disappointment, the kind reserved for watching promising children make catastrophically bad choices. "Using what? Stolen goods? Shanghaied crews? Gol, you used to have standards."

"Standards don't pay the bills when you're competing with Monolem subsidiaries," Tarilon snapped, and there it was-the real anger, the festering resentment that had driven him to this point. "You know as well as I do that the family's been squeezing out independent operators for decades. This was my chance to build something that could compete on their level."

Gage leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "I almost admire the audacity, Gol. Setting up this entire operation, manipulating the local trade wars, even framing that poor Kelincarian for your crimes. It shows real creativity."

"Then you understand why I had to-"

"I understand that you're an idiot," Gage interrupted, his voice cutting through Tarilon's justifications like a blade. "Did you really think the Monolems wouldn't notice? Did you imagine they'd just let you carve out your own little empire without consequences?"

Chekov found himself holding his breath. The conversation was building toward something-he could feel the tension coiling like a spring - but he couldn't quite see where it was leading. Outside, the sounds of Paget's battle were growing closer: shouts of pain and fury, the distinctive whine of energy weapons, the metallic clash of blade against barrier.

"Here's what's going to happen," Gage continued, his voice dropping to a conversational tone that somehow managed to be more threatening than any shout. "You're going to release the boy. You're going to shut down this entire operation. And you're going to come back to Haven space with me to have a very long conversation with the Monolems about your recent business ventures."

Tarilon sneered and crossed his arms. "And if I refuse?"

"Refusal," Gage said with the certainty of someone stating a law of physics, "isn't going to be an option."

Tarilon’s laugh was incredulous. "Lane, you seem remarkably confident for a man who's alone and unarmed in an enemy's stronghold."

"I am confident," Gage agreed. "But as for being alone..." He smiled and gestured toward the monitors.

When Tarilon turned to look, the sound that greeted him was like a force of nature unleashed: splintering wood, screaming metal, and Rev Marken's voice raised in genuine pain and surprise.

The office door didn't just open - it exploded inward in a shower of fragments as Jeremy Paget crashed through it like a living weapon. His medieval blade gleamed with the residue of deflected energy blasts, and his dark skin glowed with the bright sheen of combat sweat. His eyes held the wild light of a berserker in full battle fury.

"HAVEN BASTARD!" he roared, his gaze fixing on Tarilon with the intensity of a targeting system. "Release the Federation officer or I'll show you what happens to cowards who hide behind walls!"

Tarilon's hand moved toward his weapon, but Gage already had his disruptor drawn, its muzzle pointed at Tarilon's chest with unwavering precision.

"I wouldn't recommend any sudden movements," Gage said mildly. "Gol, meet Jeremy Paget, Chief of Security for the U.S.S. Enterprise. Jeremy, this is Gol Tarilon, soon-to-be-former entrepreneur. Don’t know if the two of you have met?"

"Hadn’t had the pleasure," Paget growled, keeping his weapon raised.

Tarilon looked from Gage's disruptor to Paget's blood-hungry blade to Chekov's quietly alert presence. The sound of approaching footsteps echoed from the corridor-more than one set, moving with the coordinated precision that suggested either very good security forces or very good Starfleet officers.

"It appears," Tarilon said finally, his voice carrying the hollow resignation of a man watching his carefully constructed world collapse, "that I may have miscalculated."

"Just a bit," Gage agreed with charitable understatement.

Paget moved to release Chekov, his fierce expression softening with concern. "Tovarish, are you injured?"

Chekov shook his head, though he remained seated until the restraints were fully deactivated. "Nothing serious. So you actually teamed up with Gage?"

"A simple 'I appreciate your saving my life' would suffice," Gage replied with an injured sniff. "Never mind. We'll have time for your apologies about the deeper aspersions on my character later."

The approaching footsteps resolved into familiar voices-Uhura's crisp tactical calls, Tomor Rand's deeper tones confirming corridor security, and Daffy Gollub's acerbic observations about the shortcomings of facility's defensive systems, as well as the general character, personal appearance, cleanliness, and parentage of its inhabitants. A moment later, they appeared in the doorway like cavalry arriving just after the battle's end.

"Pavel!" Daffy rushed to his side, immediately checking him for injuries. "Bubbeleh, are you all right? That bastard didn't hurt you, did he?"

"I'm fine, Dafshka," Chekov assured her. "Though I'm beginning to think our undercover missions have a disturbing tendency to become more complicated than we anticipate."

"You noticed that too?" Uhura said dryly, her relief evident as she took in the scene-one captured criminal, two rescued officers, and no apparent casualties. "Tomor, what's the status on Tarilon's people?"

"Rev Marken's unconscious but breathing," Tomor Rand reported, his attention focused on Tarilon. "The others are either neutralized or fled. This operation is finished."

Tarilon seemed to deflate as the reality of his situation fully sank in, his expensive clothes and distinguished bearing unable to disguise the defeat written in every line of his body. "So what happens now? Do I get handed over to your Federation authorities for a show trial?"

"That," Gage said, his tone suggesting the question was almost insulting in its naivety, "would be entirely up to the Monolems to decide. But I suspect they'd prefer to handle this as an internal matter." His smile was sharp as a knife's edge. "Family business, you understand."

"Another seventy-two hours of this is not such a bad thing," Uhura conceded, raising her glass of rum punch toward the azure sky. The liquid caught the afternoon light like liquid amber, casting dancing reflections across the stone table.

Two days had passed since the explosive confrontations with Gol Tarilon and Yameen Renalli's desperate gambit. The Enterprise team - still buried deep in their cover identities as Pasol Chavask the merchant, his sharp-tongued wife Dasha, their assistant Uhn, and the hulking bodyguard Kring - sat around a circular stone table on the Golden Niran's elegant verandah. Across from them, their Haven counterparts Lane Gage and Tomor Rand completed the circle, their body language a study in contrasts to the Starfleet officers' easy camaraderie.

The inn's courtyard garden stretched below them like a living tapestry. Manicured hedges carved geometric patterns around beds of flowering vines that released their perfume into the warm air with each gentle breeze. At the garden's heart, a small fountain sent crystalline streams arcing through the sunlight, its gentle music mixing with the distant hum of Nazanin's bustling streets beyond the high walls. Decorative awnings striped the verandah in bands of shadow and golden light, creating an intimate pocket of civilization in the alien world.

The success of their mission had brought an unexpected complication -- maintaining their covers until the end. Because the Pasol Chavask persona had once more proved so successful a cover, headquarters wished to preserve it for another possible future use. Therefore, rather than an abrupt beam-up that would have whisked them back to the Enterprise, it was decided that a more mundane departure would be more realistic and draw less unwanted attention. In obedience to this plan, the team had booked passage on a commercial starliner like proper Kelincarian merchants, which meant three more days of playing their roles in this provincial theater.

"It is nice that we were able to see Yameen Renalli's trial through to its conclusion," Paget agreed. He lifted his glass. "Fingers crossed for a 'not guilty' verdict."

Gollub snorted. "I was more sympathetic before his henchmen nabbed me." She touched her temple unconsciously, where a faint yellow bruise still lingered as a reminder of the unpleasantness that had transpired.

"Although he and his followers behaved badly," Chekov said, joining Paget in his toast, while simultaneously acknowledging the reservations of his girlfriend with a nod, "I wish Renalli well in this matter. Much wrong was done to him, both on this planet and on Kelincar."

"Honored guests!" The voice exploded across the courtyard like a sonic boom.

Dafuv Sanzint burst from the shadows of a nearby table where he had been hovering like a vulture in butterfly robes, his massive frame practically vibrating with barely contained excitement. His florid face beamed with manic joy.

"Surely the verdict cannot be in doubt? How could it be, with both the great Master Chavask and the incomparable Captain Gage speaking for the defendant? The judges would have to be mad to ignore such testimony!"

The innkeeper's glee was palpable, radiating from him in waves that made the air itself seem to shimmer. His establishment had become the epicenter of Nazanin's social universe - the place where the legendary Pasol Chavask had stayed during the most sensational trial in recent memory. Every guest who walked through his doors was now potential witness to history.

Chekov set down his glass. "The evidence spoke for itself, Master Sanzint. Truth has a way of revealing itself when examined closely."

During the trial, a coordinated defense strategy for Yameen Renalli had been executed by the Star Fleet and Haven investigative teams with an ease that was would have positively astounded anyone aware of their prior difficulties.

Chekov had taken the stand first, his testimony about linguistic inconsistencies delivered with the passionate precision of a scholar. The supposed note from Renalli contained archaic spellings and grammatical forms that no modern Kelincarian would use - the word for "honor" written in a form that hadn't been current for over a century. His analysis had been thorough, methodical, devastating.

Lane Gage, testifying from the stand that his suspicions had been raised by concerns expressed by his esteemed colleague Master Chavosk, had provided the technical analysis that proved the fabric supposedly torn from Renalli's coat was manufactured off-world, using synthetic fibers not available on Kelincar. His testimony had been delivered with the cool precision of a master dealer, leaving no room for doubt about the evidence's fabricated nature.

Jeremy Paget and Tomor Rand had closed the trap, their combined security expertise dismantling the eyewitness testimony with surgical precision. The stable boy and kitchen maid who claimed to see the same suspicious figure in two different locations simultaneously had been exposed as either mistaken or lying, their impossible timeline crumbling under methodical questioning.

"The whole city is buzzing about the trial!" Sanzint continued, his gestures encompassing not just the sunny courtyard but apparently the entire planet. "Never have we seen such drama, such intrigue! And it all centered here, at my humble establishment!"

Indeed, the Golden Niran had become something of a pilgrimage site. Throughout their meal, other guests had been conducting their own reconnaissance missions-stealing glances at their table, whispering among themselves like conspirators. The bravest souls had approached to shake hands with the participants in the most newsworthy trial in recent memory, their voices dropping to reverent whispers as they asked whether these events might signal an end to the trade war that had been bleeding their businesses dry.

The sound of approaching footsteps made several of the officers tense involuntarily before they recognized the familiar chaos of Savati and Sari Sanzint - the "Trouble Twins" - drifting over from where they had been regaling other guests with increasingly embellished versions of events. Sari still bore a faint bruise on her cheek from Renalli's violent outburst at the Guild Ball, but she wore it now like a badge of honor. The suspicious hint of blue eye shadow suggested she might have enhanced the color for dramatic effect.

"Oh, Master Chavask!" Savati exclaimed, grasping Chekov's hand with the fervor of a true believer. "Even though we were drugged during the robbery, testifying at the trial was the most exciting thing that's ever happened to us!"

Chekov's smile was strained as he gently extracted his hand from the young man’s grip. "How very... nice for you."

"We may not have seen much," Sari added with a giggle, bouncing on her toes before planting a quick kiss on the top of Chekov's head, "but just being part of such an important case... well, it's practically made us celebrities now!"

The temperature around their table dropped several degrees as Daffy Gollub's smile became a fierce display of teeth. She rose from her chair, her hand settling on Sari's shoulder with just enough pressure to guide the girl an arm's length away from her boyfriend.

"Wonderful," Gollub said, her voice honey over steel. "If I had known that was all it took, I would have smashed the two of you in the head with something on the first day."

The twins laughed merrily.

"Mistress Chavask!" Savati exclaimed, putting an arm around his sister's shoulders. "You are so funny!"

"She is, isn't she?" Chekov replied quickly, recognizing the dangerous glint in Gollub's eyes. "Aren't those guests over there signaling for you?"

"They probably want to hear about your adventure," Uhura added smoothly.

"Nice save," Tomor Rand commented quietly as the twins eagerly dashed away like puppies chasing a ball.

"We don't have enough time left to stay for Daffy to be put on trial for strangling one of them," Paget concluded philosophically.

Uhura shook her head ruefully, her dark eyes following the twins' retreat. "This mission has been complicated enough as is."

"A little too complicated." Chekov cautiously checked to see that they were not actively being eavesdropped upon.  He then leaned forward, his voice low but intense. "I must say again that I really do not appreciate being kept in the dark about the true nature of this mission. It is most... unprofessional."

"And I," Lane Gage retorted acidly, "do not appreciate being second-guessed by Starfleet personnel who have a shockingly limited understanding of Haven culture and protocols."

The words carried decades of interspecies friction, each syllable carefully chosen to wound. The two men faced each other across the table like duelists measuring distance.

"Understanding goes both ways," Jeremy Paget interjected, his tone carefully controlled. "We were told to avoid contact with Haven representatives, only to find ourselves in the middle of what was clearly meant to be a coordinated operation."

Daffy Gollub made a noise of frustrated impatience. "The whole thing was a setup from the beginning, wasn't it? Omm Monolem knew exactly what he was doing when he requested Federation assistance."

"Two words." Tomor Rand, his arm still draped possessively around Uhura's shoulders in a gesture that spoke of intimacy and territorial claim, held up two fingers. "Plausible deniability."

"Two independent investigations," Lane Gage illustrated his explanation by holding up a fork on one side of his plate and a spoon on the other, the utensils catching the dappled sunlight. He paused dramatically, underscoring the equality and utility of both implements. "If the Federation team had been caught spying on Uradan merchants, the Haven Trading Empire could claim complete ignorance. If our investigation had gone wrong, we could point to Federation cooperation as proof of our good intentions."

"Using Chekov's established identity as Pasol Chavask was brilliant," Uhura added, pointing to the spoon. "It practically guaranteed that Yameen Renalli would make contact, creating perfect cover for the real investigation."

"Which - as we did not know - was always about Gol Tarilon," Chekov concluded grimly, his accusing finger aimed at Gage's fork. "Renalli was just the distraction."

"Precisely," Gage agreed with satisfaction, using both utensils to attack his salad in what he clearly considered a brilliant conclusion to his metaphor.

"Speaking of Tarilon," Uhura asked, her voice carefully casual as she turned toward her lover, "what exactly happens to him?"

Despite the obvious warmth between the couple, the temperature at their table plummeted as if someone had opened an airlock to space. Tomor's expression became a diplomat's perfect mask of neutrality.

"That's an internal HTE matter now."

"Which means what, exactly?" Daffy Gollub pressed, ignoring the obvious signals that she should let the matter drop.

Lane Gage set down his fork as if his appetite had suddenly withered. His smile was winter itself as he reached for his wine glass. "Suffice it to say, my dear, that rogue traders who damage the Empire's reputation don't tend to remain problems for very long."

The unspoken implications of the dealer’s statement were as clear as they were cold. Federation justice involved trials, rehabilitation, second chances. Haven justice was swift, final, and designed to send a message that would echo through the trade lanes for generations.

"So," Uhura began, her voice determinedly bright as she steered toward safer waters, "I suppose you'll be returning to your ship now that the mission is complete?"

Gage opened his mouth to speak, but Tomor cut him off with smooth efficiency.

"Actually, we'll be staying for another seventy-two hours. Same as you."

A look passed between the two Haven operatives - a communication as complex and layered as any Vulcan mind-meld. Gage stubbornly opened his mouth to speak again, but a slight negative quirk of Rand's lips, combined with an almost imperceptible but clearly possessive squeeze of Uhura's shoulders, stopped the dealer dead.

"Seventy-two hours," Gage repeated with the exaggerated patience of someone swallowing his pride along with his words. His eyes rolled skyward as if seeking divine intervention. "In this... ever so charming little nonentity of a planet."

"Oh, that's wonderful news!"

The voice belonged to Sari Sanzint, who had been carried back toward their table on the currents of her newfound celebrity status. Her shameless eavesdropping had clearly paid dividends. Her brother materialized beside her as if summoned by the dark magic of sibling telepathy.

"We'll show you the real Nazanin!" Savati declared with the fervor of a true believer. "Not the boring merchant stuff you've been doing. We know all the best places - the underground racing circuits, the floating gardens, the night markets in the old quarter!"

"There's a festival starting tomorrow," Sari added breathlessly, bouncing on her toes with excitement. "The Celebration of Seven Moons! There will be dancing, gambling, exotic foods, street performers-"

"A festival?" Gage repeated in the same tone another person might use to pronounce the word "pestilence."

"With dancing." Uhura smiled, snuggling closer to Tomor.

"And we'll be your personal guides!" the twins chorused together, their synchronized enthusiasm inducing mild nausea in a few who chanced to be too close by.

"Oy gevalt!" Daffy Gollub groaned, rubbing her forehead as if trying to massage away an impending migraine. "Kill me now..."

Before the twins could launch into further rhapsodies about local entertainment, salvation arrived in the form of a young messenger in courthouse livery. He approached their table with the careful respect of someone who understood he was interrupting important people, bowing precisely before speaking.

"Masters, I bring word from the tribunal. Yameen Renalli has been acquitted of all charges. The judges found the evidence of forgery and conspiracy to be compelling and incontrovertible."

A cheer erupted from the other tables scattered across the courtyard-word of the verdict spreading through the crowd like wildfire in a place where gossip was the primary form of entertainment. The innkeeper and his children moved through their guests like conductors directing an orchestra of excited voices, each person eager to share their connection to this moment of justice.

"Furthermore," the messenger continued, lowering his voice to a more intimate register, "Master Renalli wishes to extend his personal gratitude to Master Chavask and Captain Gage for their testimony on his behalf. He has asked me to deliver this token of his appreciation."

He handed over a small wrapped package to Chekov with the ceremony of a diplomatic exchange. Inside, nestled in soft cloth, lay a piece of genuine chitalia - not the diseased, discolored variety from the poisoned mines, but a perfect specimen of the deep green stone veined with brilliant red like captured lightning.

"Well," Chekov said, holding the stone up to catch the afternoon light, watching it transform the sunbeams into emerald fire, "justice has been served."

"And a rogue trader has been stopped," Gage added with the grim satisfaction.

"And the Haven-Federation alliance has been strengthened," Uhura observed diplomatically, raising her glass in a toast that encompassed both politics and hope.

"And we're stuck here for three more days with the Trouble Twins as our tour guides," Paget concluded with dark humor, matching her gesture while his expression suggested he was toasting their doom.

"Robbery, kidnapping, rescues, trials..." Daffy Gollub sighed dramatically, raising her glass to complete the circle. "This we can handle. It's the three days of tourism with those two that will probably kill us all."

The End