THE PEACOCK AND THE PANTHER Part 2: The Breath of Welcome
Posted on Mon Jan 12th, 2026 @ 10:09pm by Commodore Stephen MacCaffery
617 words; about a 3 minute read
Mission:
The Tavrik Accord: Orchestrated Chaos
Location: Island Chain Seven (“The Lanterns”), Tavrik III
“We reconvene in thirty minutes,” Stephen announced, his voice projecting to the edges of the perimeter. “Ceremonial toast at the pavilion entrance, then we proceed directly to the opening session.”
The groups scattered.
Tharn smiled. It was a victory smile, sharp and brief. She handed her personal crystal flute to Kaelen. He took it with a nod and tossed it into a waste recycler. She was done with her private supply. She was ready for the communal cup.
Veln took Kalon’s arm, leading him away toward the Kaldari quarters. Kalon looked back—not at Stephen, but at the refreshment station.
Specifically, at the three crystal glasses that Van Ness’s crew was now arranging on a silver tray.
They filled them from the communal decanters. Golden nectar, thick and sweet.
Kalon stared at the glasses, dread hollowing his eyes. They might as well have been instruments of execution.
Stephen watched them leave. Doubt twisted in his gut, sharp as pain. He turned to Khorev.
“Secure the area,” Stephen said. “Nobody touches those glasses. Nobody comes near them until we walk out there.”
“Sir,” Khorev said. He looked at the glasses, then at the retreating Kaldari. “Maybe we should scan them. Just to be sure.”
“They’ve been under watch,” Stephen said, stubborn now. He had made his call. “Scanning breaks the ceremonial seal. The Kaldari are superstitious about the purity. If we use tricorders, we insult Veln.”
Khorev stared at him. “Insults don’t kill people, Sir.”
“Wars do,” Stephen said. “Secure the perimeter, Lieutenant.”
Stephen walked into the main conference hall. The Golden Cage.
Silent. Cool. The environmental systems hummed, holding back heat and jungle scent. Light filtered through the canopy, soft and gold. A beautiful room.
He walked to the triangular table, set down his PADDs, and checked the sightlines. Perfect.
Near the entrance, on a small side table, the three ceremonial glasses waited.
They glowed in the light. Amber liquid, rich and heavy. An ensign stood guard, back rigid, eyes front.
Stephen approached the glasses, gaze narrowed. No sediment, no cloud—just golden juice, innocent as it should be. Relief flickered, then died. A faint swirl marred the surface, a tremor in the calm. Doubt rooted itself. Twenty-nine minutes.
“Aye, sir,” the ensign said.
Stephen drew a breath. The air smelled of orchids and ozone. He had navigated arrivals, managed outbursts, and kept the players on the board.
He was ready.
Outside, footsteps crunched on the gravel. The heavy tread of the Kaldari. The light, rhythmic step of the Vethari.
They were coming.
Stephen straightened his tunic, adjusted his cuffs, and put on the mask of the impartial arbiter.
“Khorev,” he said into his comm. “Hold the door. We start on time. First the toast, then the negotiations.”
“Sir,” Khorev’s voice came back, tight. “The glasses—”
“Are sacred, Lieutenant,” Stephen said. “We trust the process.”
The doors slid open. Heat rushed in, bringing the scent of the jungle and the coming storm.
Thess Kalon walked in, flanked by Veln. He was as pale as a bone. He looked at the glasses.
Sella Tharn walked in, flanked by Kaelen. She looked at the glasses. She smiled.
Stephen raised his hand.
“Welcome,” he said. “To the table.”
End Log
Commodore Stephen James MacCaffery
Federation Special Envoy
Tavrik III
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