THE PEACOCK AND THE PANTHER PART 1: The Glass Summit

Posted on Mon Jan 12th, 2026 @ 10:01pm by Commodore Stephen MacCaffery

3,937 words; about a 20 minute read

Mission: The Tavrik Accord: Orchestrated Chaos
Location: Island Chain Seven (“The Lanterns”), Tavrik III

Time: Day 19, 0850 Hours (10 Minutes to Arrival)

Heat pressed in, heavy as judgment, the air thick with salt and a metallic tang that promised more than weather. Sweat gathered on Stephen MacCaffery’s brow, his dress whites plastered to him, a uniform turned shroud. Every breath tasted of tension, the island’s peace brittle as glass.

Stephen stood at the landing zone’s edge, hands clasped behind him, counting each breath. Here, sweat was inevitable, but to acknowledge it was to yield ground. He let the heat mark him, refusing the small surrender of wiping his brow.

Ten meters to his left, Lieutenant Pavel Khorev stood still. The security chief watched the tree line, where thick, tangled ferns grew. Khorev’s sunglasses caught the harsh tropical glare, hiding eyes that Stephen knew were watching for movement, not admiring the view.

“The grid reads green,” Stephen said, his voice low.

“The grid is a polite fiction,” Khorev replied. He didn’t turn his head. “We found the drone, sir. We know they have eyes here. The green light on my tricorder just means we have agreed to participate in their play.”

Stephen studied the reception pavilion. Van Ness had built a structure of glass and white polymer in forty-eight hours. It looked more like a temple to the wind than a government outpost. Khorev’s assessment held.

"We participate in the fiction," Stephen said, "because it’s the only way to get them to write a new ending. If we lock this place down, we prove their paranoia right. If we keep it open, we keep it civilized. For the Vethari, visibility is leverage. For the Kaldari, it’s survival." He wondered if they were trading substance for show, but let the thought go. He remembered a negotiation meant to bring peace that instead fell apart, costing him allies and credibility. This summit had to work; too many lives and reputations, including his own, depended on it. The mission mattered most.

Khorev shifted his weight, a micro-adjustment that cleared the path to his thigh holster. “Civilized is just a targeting solution you haven’t identified yet.” He jerked his chin toward the black sand beach, fifty meters away. “And that refreshment station is a tactical nightmare. Too many access points. No perimeter. We are placing consumables in the open, unguarded.”

Stephen followed the line of sight. The refreshment station waited on volcanic sand, a tableau arranged for effect. White linen tables under silk canopies snapped in the wind. Crystal decanters glowed with golden nectar, local fruit pressed and iced, glass sweating in the heat.

It looked inviting. It looked like peace.

A knot twisted in Stephen’s gut. The station was a lure, not a welcome, an invitation for disaster, dressed in linen and glass.

“It is the Breath of Welcome,” Stephen said. “Kaldari tradition. We offer sustenance before we offer arguments. If we put guards around the punch bowl, Pavel, we might as well point phasers at their heads when they land.”

“Dead men don’t negotiate,” Khorev said.

“And frightened men don’t sign treaties,” Stephen countered. He glanced at his chrono. Nine minutes left. Each second felt heavier than the last, time a tangible pressure.

He looked back at the jungle. Somewhere in that tangle of green, a Vethari sensor package recorded his posture, his expression, and his refusal to wipe the sweat from his temple. He straightened his back. Let them watch. Let them see the Federation stand firm in the heat.

“Contact,” Ops chattered in his earpiece. “Unauthorized vector. Bearing zero-niner-zero. Speed… hell, sir, that’s fast.”

Stephen didn’t look at the sky. He looked at Khorev. The Lieutenant’s body went rigid, changing from watchful to ready in an instant.

“Hold,” Stephen ordered. He pitched his voice to carry over the sudden, thrumming vibration that began to shake the ground.

No roar of engines, just a hum, low and resonant, vibrating in Stephen’s teeth. He remembered the thunder of starship launches, the way sound could tear the world open. This hush was worse. A shadow slid across the pad, blotting out the sun. Silence pressed in, a threat sharper than noise.

Sella Tharn did not use the designated flight corridor. She did not use a shuttle.

A silver teardrop fell from the clouds, seamless and silent. The gravity-skiff was worth more than the colony below. It ignored the landing markers and descended straight for the pavilion.

“She’s blowing the staging,” Van Ness’s voice crackled over the comms, tight with fury. “Commodore, the antigrav wash—”

The skiff halted ten meters above the grass. The displacement field hit the ground like a hammer.

The white canopies snapped. Linen whipped up, silver trays clattered. Crystal decanters rattled with a discordant chime. One toppled, shattering on black sand. Golden nectar splashed across a Federation banner, leaving a wet, ugly blot on the blue. It looked like blood on ivory. Khorev’s hand went to his phaser. His team dropped into firing crouches.

“Stand down!” Stephen barked. He stepped forward, into the wind wash, shielding his eyes. “Do not draw weapons!”

The skiff settled, hovering just above the grass. Tharn didn’t arrive; she claimed the ground, bending Stephen’s careful order into chaos: nectar spilled, linen whipped, the stage undone before the first word.

The insult struck home. Stephen forced his hands open. Nectar bled into black sand, already drawing flies. The message was plain: your rules do not bind us.

“Reset the table,” Stephen said into his comm, his voice ice. “You have five minutes.”

The skiff’s hull dissolved. Smart-matter retracting into a seamless opening. A ramp extended, not touching the dirt, hovering a millimeter above it.

Sella Tharn emerged.

She stood untouched by the heat, indigo and silver silks falling in perfect lines. Where others wilted, she remained immaculate—skin dry, makeup unbroken. Technology whispered beneath the fabric: thermal mesh, armor, secrets.

She paused on the ramp, looking down at Stephen. It was the angle she preferred.

Behind her, Kaelen, her head of security, stood tall. He was large and enhanced with cybernetics, his eyes scanning the area with a calm, almost bored look. He met Khorev’s gaze, held it, then looked away.

Tharn descended, each step deliberate. Stephen felt the sweat on his skin, the weight of being merely human beside her engineered poise.

“Commodore,” she said. Her voice was melodic, pitched perfectly to cut through the wind. “A charming location. Quite… rustic.”

“We prefer 'neutral,'” Stephen said, meeting her at the bottom of the ramp. He did not offer a hand, knowing she wouldn’t take it. He let the unspoken critique linger in the tropical air, the silence heavy with Federation restraint and subtle disapproval.

Tharn’s pale violet eyes drifted past him to the refreshment station. Van Ness’s crew scrambled, righting the decanters, swapping the stained tablecloths.

“Disruption clarifies the order of things,” Tharn said. She walked past him, toward the pavilion. She stopped at the edge of the reception area.

“And look at this,” she murmured. “Open air. Local fruit. Unprocessed.” She turned to Stephen, a small, sharp smile playing on her lips. “How trusting you are, Stephen. To leave the food and drink out here, exposed to the elements. And to anyone passing by.”

Not a compliment—a calculation, cool and precise.

Kaelen moved away from her flank, drifting toward the tables. He wasn’t getting a drink. He was walking the grid. He passed close to the crystal decanters, his shadow falling over the golden liquid. He looked at the ice melting, then up at Khorev.

Adrenaline spiked. Kaelen was too close to the drinks. Stephen couldn’t call him off without showing fear or admitting the site was already lost.

“We believe hospitality requires trust,” Stephen said.

“Trust,” Tharn repeated, tasting the word like a bad vintage. “A luxury for those with nothing to lose.”

She turned her back on the refreshment table, leaving Kaelen standing there, a dark statue next to the crystal.

The sound of the Kaldari arrival was the opposite of the Vethari silence. It was a roar of chemical rockets, a scream of atmospheric friction.

Stephen turned to the landing pad. The Kaldari transport was a brick with engines, hull scarred and patched with mismatched alloys, thrusters venting dirty smoke. Ugly, loud, functional. It landed with a jarring thud, struts groaning under the weight.

The ramp clanged down. Steam hissed from coolant vents.

Governor Tarek Veln emerged first, blinking against the glare. He wore heavy industrial wools, a badge of office that offered no relief from the heat. Sweat broke on his brow within seconds.

But Stephen’s attention shifted to the man behind him.

Thess Kalon stumbled as he hit the bottom of the ramp. He was a small man, withered by stress and age, his skin the color of old parchment. He clutched a hydration pack to his chest with trembling hands, taking frantic, bird-like sips.

“Steady,” Veln murmured, grabbing Kalon’s elbow.

Kalon was a ruin—eyes sunken, skin drawn tight, swaying like a man already half-defeated by the heat. He looked less a diplomat than a casualty.

Stephen moved forward, stride measured. This was not a greeting. It was triage.

“Governor,” Stephen said. “Councilman.”

Kalon didn’t answer. His eyes fixed on the refreshment station in the distance—on the condensation dripping from the cold decanters. He licked cracked lips. The thirst was written in every line of his body, a desperate, animal need.

“Water,” Kalon rasped.

“Soon, Thess,” Veln whispered, steering him. “Protocol first.”

Stephen watched the tableau: Tharn, cool in her silks; Kalon, wilting in wool, thirst etched into every line. The Federation stood between, white-clad and brittle. Doubt gnawed at him, a tightness he buried beneath the mask of the arbiter. Neutrality was a mirage, and the peace felt as fragile as spun glass.

Stephen extended his hand to Kalon.

The Kaldari councilman didn’t take his hand. Instead, he lurched forward, pulling away from Veln’s grip. He clutched a datapad to his chest, holding it like a shield or something dangerous.

“Commodore,” Kalon gasped, too close now. Stephen caught the sour reek of fear-sweat and old wool. “I have… we need to…”

Kalon’s eyes were wide, darting around. He looked at Stephen with desperate, almost frightening gratitude. He stumbled again, his knees giving out.

Stephen reached out and caught the man by the shoulders. Kalon was light and frail, shaking with tremors.

“Easy, Councilman,” Stephen said, his voice low, the Judge’s tone designed to anchor. “We’ll get you seated. We’ll get you cooled down.”

“No,” Kalon whispered. He tried to shove the datapad into Stephen’s chest. “Take it. Now. Before the…”

Veln was there instantly, pulling Kalon back. “Forgive him, Commodore. The travel. The heat. He is unwell.”

Stephen saw it—terror, raw and unhidden.

“Save it for the session, Thess,” Veln hissed in Kaldari, his hand clamping hard on Kalon’s shoulder. “Get something to drink first. Stabilize yourself.”

Stephen hesitated. The datapad was there. The Evidence. The reason for all of this. He could take it now, break protocol, call a medical emergency, and secure the witness. Protocol or protection? This was the moment of decision, like a blade balanced on the edge of a glass, ready to tip into chaos at any moment. Across the green, Sella Tharn watched from the pavilion's shade, a violet-eyed statue. If Stephen took the pad now, before the session and the rituals, she would claim collusion. The Federation would be seen as accepting Kaldari secrets in secret. The summit would fall apart before it began.

Stephen stepped back. He let Veln pull Kalon away.

“We have medical staff standing by,” Stephen said.

“He just needs water,” Veln said. “And the ceremony. We must honor the ceremony.”

Sella Tharn did not walk; she arrived. She glided across the grass, leaving the shade of the pavilion to intercept the Kaldari delegation.

She ignored Veln entirely. Her focus locked onto Kalon.

“Councilman Kalon,” she said.

Kalon flinched as if she had struck him. He pulled the datapad tighter against his chest.

Tharn stopped three feet away. She gave a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a cold, clinical look, as if she were examining a specimen. Her eyes moved over him, noting the tremors, sweat, pale skin, and cracked lips.

“You look… unwell,” she said. Her voice was solicitous, dripping with poison, and sweet concern. “The burden of leadership, I suppose. Or perhaps just the climate.”

Kaelen stepped up behind her. His hand dropped to his belt—not to a weapon, but resting there, heavy and suggestive. His eyes were not on Kalon’s face. They were on the datapad.

Kalon made a small, whimpering sound in his throat.

“Perhaps you should sit,” Tharn suggested. She gestured gracefully toward the refreshment tables, where the crystal decanters gleamed in the sun. “Have some refreshment. You look parched, Councilman. Dangerous to be dehydrated in this heat. You need your strength.”

Not help—just the marking of prey. Weak, spent, already written off.

Kaelen murmured something in Vethari. Tharn nodded, just once.

Stephen stepped in. He moved physically between Tharn and Kalon, breaking the line of sight. It was a breach of etiquette, cutting off an Envoy, but the air around Kalon felt like it was about to ignite.

“We’re moving to the reception area,” Stephen said flatly. “Envoy, if you would join us?”

Tharn’s eyes snapped to Stephen. For a second, the mask slipped, and he saw the annoyance of a predator interrupted before the kill. Then the smooth porcelain returned.

“Of course,” she said. “After you.”

The reception was unnatural. No one wanted to be here. No one wanted to speak.

They gathered on the strip of black sand facing the lagoon. The sun beat down, turning the air into a sauna. Van Ness’s crew had set up cooling fans and misters, but the wind snatched the moisture away before it could offer relief.

The divide was absolute, two worlds, no bridge.

The Vethari delegation took the shade of the largest palm grove. They did not touch the refreshments provided by the Federation. Tharn’s aide produced a silver flask and a personal crystal flute. Tharn sipped her own supply, cool and detached, watching the others swelter.

The Kaldari huddled near the surf, heavy wools soaking up the heat. They looked like refugees.

Stephen moved through the center, dressed in white, trying to bring the groups together. He took a glass of nectar from a tray, warm, sweet, and heavy, and held it as a gesture of hospitality.

“Director Eriksson,” he said, nodding to his colleague as she circulated. “How are we doing?”

“We’re drowning,” she muttered, smiling broadly for the benefit of the watchers. “Nobody is talking. The Vethari are looking at the Kaldari like they’re livestock, and the Kaldari look like they’re waiting for a firing squad.”

Stephen looked at Kalon.

The Councilman stood apart from his own group. He stared at the main refreshment table. There were three large decanters there, reserved for the ceremonial toast. They sat on a pedestal, catching the light, golden and heavy.

Kalon swayed. His tongue flicked out, lips too dry. He stared at the nectar with a longing that hurt to witness.

Veln approached him with a glass of water. “Here, Thess. Drink.”

Kalon slapped the glass away. Water splashed onto the black sand, sizzling as it hit the hot volcanic rock.

“No!” Kalon hissed. His eyes darted to Tharn, then to Kaelen, then to Stephen. “Not from them. Not… not yet.”

He wouldn’t last. The table might as well have been a finish line he’d never reach.

“Sir.”

Lt. Commander Steerforth appeared at Stephen’s elbow. The cultural liaison looked pale, the heat flushing his cheeks, but his voice was urgent.

"Walk with me," Stephen said. They moved toward the perimeter's edge, away from the Vethari's audio pickups.

"He's shaking, sir," Steerforth whispered. "Kalon. I've been monitoring his biometrics remotely. His pulse is frantic, like a trapped hummingbird trying to escape."

“He’s terrified,” Stephen said.

“It’s more than that,” Steerforth said. “He thinks they’re going to kill him right here. Before the session starts. He thinks the food is poisoned. That’s why he won’t eat. That’s why he slapped the water away.”

Stephen looked back at the tableau. Kaelen stood near the refreshment station again, arms crossed, watching Kalon with that dead-eyed stare.

“He wants to hand it over,” Steerforth said. “The Evidence. He wants to give it to you now and get into protective custody. He wants out, Stephen.”

Empathy tugged, insistent. The right move—take the man, take the data, get him clear—waited just out of reach.

“We can’t,” Stephen said.

Steerforth stopped. "Sir?"

Stephen paused, considering other strategies. What if he quietly requested a back-channel extraction? The idea flickered—a quick operation, hidden in secrecy, getting Kalon to safety. But even as he thought about it, the consequences felt heavy. Veln could claim a breach of protocol, accuse the Federation of being deceitful, and Tharn would have a reason to escalate the conflict. He dismissed the idea, reminded of what was at stake. "If we pull him out now," Stephen said, "Tharn wins. She’ll say the Kaldari refused to negotiate. She’ll say we kidnapped a delegate. The Vethari walk away, and the trade war goes hot tomorrow. If talks fail, patrol fleets mobilize at dawn."

"He's going to have a stroke," Steerforth warned.

“We just need to get him through the ceremony,” Stephen said. “The toast is the key. It's the Kaldari custom, called the Breath of Welcome. If he refuses the toast, he insults his own people. Veln won’t let him back down. If we get through the toast, we get into the chamber. Once we’re in the chamber, I can accept the evidence into the official record. Then he’s safe. Then the galaxy is watching.” Stephen paused, thinking about how serious the situation was.

“And if the nectar is tampered with?” Steerforth asked.

Stephen looked at the decanters. “Van Ness’s people have been watching them since they were poured. Khorev has the perimeter. No one has touched them. It’s paranoia, Jack. Understandable, justified paranoia, but paranoia.”

“I hope you’re right,” Steerforth said. He didn’t sound convinced.

It happened quickly.

Kalon caught Stephen’s gaze. Something shifted in his face. Self-control giving way to fear.

He broke from Veln and ran.

He stumbled across black sand, coat flapping, datapad thrust out like a weapon.

“Commodore!” he shouted.

The reception’s silence shattered. Vethari heads turned. Starfleet hands hovered near phasers.

Kalon slammed into Stephen, grabbing his arm with a grip that was surprisingly strong, fueled by panic. He thrust the datapad at Stephen’s chest.

“Take it!” Kalon screamed. He spoke in Kaldari now, the universal translator struggling to keep pace with his rapid speech. “Please. Now. Before the toast. I can’t, if I drink, they’ll know! They’ll...”

Stephen caught him, steadying the frail body. Tremors ran through Kalon's frame. Tharn watched, lowering her glass and staring across the beach with cold, commanding judgment. Kaelen stepped forward, his hand moving to his disruptor. The quiet click of its buckle echoed, sounding like the earlier clinks of glasses and adding to the tension. It was a subtle but chilling reminder of the silent threat just beneath the surface. Tharn’s story became fact: Federation and Kaldari, conspiring. The summit could end in blood on the sand.

“Please,” Kalon begged, tears cutting tracks through the dust on his face. “I can’t drink it. I can’t.”

Stephen made his choice. The lawyer's choice, not the humanitarian's. Structure over chaos. His mind flashed back to that courtroom years ago, where strict adherence to procedure had saved an innocent life amid chaos and accusations. He put his hands on the datapad, but he didn't take it. He pushed it gently back toward Kalon's chest. "Not here, Thess," Stephen said. Kalon stared at him, betrayed. "What?" "Trust the process," Stephen said, his voice dropping into the soothing, absolute register of command. "Structure," he echoed, letting the rhythm answer Kalon's earlier despair, "will save us." We enter this into the record in one hour. When the session opens. Properly. Legally. If I take it now, they destroy us on procedure. You have to hold it a little longer."

"The drink..." Kalon whispered. His eyes went to the decanters. "They'll make me..."

"The drink is the same for all of us," Stephen said. He looked Kalon in the eye, willing him to believe. "That is the point of the ceremony. Shared risk. Shared trust. I drink. Tharn drinks. You drink. We do it together. That protects you."

"Faith," Kalon said. The word sounded like a curse.

"Process," Stephen corrected. "We all drink together. No one can touch you while the galaxy is watching."

It was a lie, and Stephen knew it. Protocol was no shield against bullets. But he needed Kalon to walk, needed the illusion to hold a little longer.

Kalon slumped. The fight left him. He looked at the datapad, then at Stephen, feeling spent and used up.

"Process," Kalon repeated, hollow.

He stepped back. He clutched the pad to his chest.

Cold sweat traced his spine, nothing to do with the heat. The summit held—barely. Peace, for the moment, endured.

He just hoped he hadn’t signed someone’s death warrant.

End Log

Commodore Stephen James MacCaffery
Federation Special Envoy
Tavrik III

 

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