Trade

[Jameson Bardolph 0]

Whiskey Bardolph took his ID from the attractive young woman manning the Polaris customs desk and gave her a wink and a smile as he turned away to look at the city where he and some of the rest of the crew had been deposited.

 

Lt. Commander Robinson had not spoken to him during the whole process, though he and Lt. Commander Jax had been only a few feet from him through most of it. This was fine with Whiskey and as soon as he reasonably could he took pains to maneuver the heck away from him, taking to his heels and plotting a course into the heart of the city at which they had been deposited.

 

It was, as near as he could figure, a pretty general sort of resort area. The area was swarming with people moving in all directions; the air was warm and dry and a light breeze ruffled his hair as he turned a corner, trotting along the slightly spongy concrete. Voices echoed on that breeze, the majority seeming to come from some sort of central point slightly to the east, and as he drew closer to it, a smile grew on his face. Those sort of shouts sounded familiar.

 

Sure enough, he rounded another bend in the street to find a sprawling street-market set up around the outer edges of a large square. "Well, good mornin', there," he said cheerfully to no one in particular, approaching the nearest vendors on his left with a grin.

 

Most of the wares were tourist-trap items -- cheap musical instruments, articles of clothing. Whiskey wasn't really interested, but the atmosphere drew him like a magnet, reminding him of the trading stations and market stops the Fenrir had often stopped at. These sorts of places had energy, they were fun.

 

Whiskey approved of fun.

 

"What'll you have, sir, what'll you have?" one of the vendors bawled at him and he stopped, turning slightly to face the dark-haired man in his stall. Folding his arms, he raised his eyebrows casually.

 

"What'll you give?"

 

The man grinned. "Well, you don't mean to go about in that getup, do you, now? No style at all!"

 

Whiskey looked down at the uniform jacket which was hanging loosely off his shoulders, and smirked. "Don't know...always felt yellow suited me."

 

"Come on then, boy, a good sharp jacket that'll suit you a good deal farther," the vendor said cheerfully, brandishing an article of clothing. It was a dark navy blue, almost black, of some sort of vaguely leathery material, with cobalt-blue accents along the arms and across the chest. It was, Whiskey had to admit as he surveyed it with a trader's analytical eye, quite well-made, and probably worth forty slips of latinum on any reasonable market -- not to mention the fact that the vendor was a salesman worth his salt; it was an excellent jacket of a fit and style that would indeed suit the young security officer.

 

"Not bad...you'll take ten slips?" he offered, ambling slowly across the space separating him from the stall.

 

"Ten?" the vendor gave the mock-offended look which acknowledged an opening trading bid. "Nothing less than fifty -- look at the detailing."

 

Whiskey looked, and shrugged casually. "Twenty."

 

"Forty."

 

"Twenty-five. Maybe. If you'll throw in a bag to carry it." A grin started twitching at his lips and his casual demeanor slipped. Maybe he was a Starfleet man now, but he had cut his teeth on this sort of thing.

 

The vendor shook his head. "Thirty-five."

 

"Twenty-five," Whiskey repeated, and his eyes twinkled mischievously as the vendor gave him a frustrated look.

 

"Thirty-two."

 

"Twenty-five."

 

"Thirty."

 

Whiskey said nothing, just looked at him patiently. The vendor raised both eyebrows at him and then sighed. "And a bag."

 

Whiskey laughed aloud. "Done!" he said, stretching out a hand to shake on the bargain. "I'll need some money sent down from my ship; I'll be back in an hour to pick it up. And I'll throw in an extra slip if you can tell me -- are there any good bars in the neighborhood?"

 

"Up the street and around the corner, you'll find a good spot -- drink, and good food if you've a mind for it."

 

"Excellent; see you in an hour."