Rules of Accusation
Author: Paula M. Block; Terry J. Erdmann
Date: 2016-07-04 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Star Trek
Description: An original eNovella set in the Star Trek: Deep Space Nine universe! On the space station Deep Space 9, Quark’s Public House, Café, Gaming Emporium, Holosuite Arcade, and Ferengi Embassy can’t legitimately be called an embassy until the Grand Nagus—namely, Quark’s brother Rom—dedicates it as such. Not that Quark really cares about Ferengi protocol, but a well-publicized dedication ceremony will naturally draw people to the bar. Everybody loves a good open house—free appetizers, half-price drinks, door prizes, etc.—all of which Quark can write off as Embassy expenses. It’s a win-win situation,
Publisher: Pocket Books/Star Trek

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To Margaret Clark,
who always has such good ideas!

“Dignity and an empty sack . . . is worth the sack.”

—109th Rule

Ferengi Rules of Acquisition

Historian’s Note

With the exception of the Prelude, set in 2371, this story takes place in 2385 (post Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: The Missing, pre Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: Sacraments of Fire).

PRELUDE

2371 AC

Bartleby squinted at the illuminated parchment.

Almost finished, he thought.

He flicked his tongue into a kylix of saltmarsh tea, sipped several drams of the refreshing liquid, then peered at his collection of antique quills, brushes, reeds, and styluses.

The Gunji jackdaw perhaps, he thought, picking up a downy quill. He examined the blunt nib, frowned, and carefully laid the quill back in its case. Too wide. Slowly wavering his foreped above the collection, the Kalpazan paused several times before moving on. Ah, the Terellian pheasant, he thought finally, and he lifted the rachis closer to the light. Plucked from under the wing. Very delicate—not unlike the flavor of the donor’s flesh. Perhaps I’ll partake of some at the conclusion of this transaction.

The Kalpazan dipped the quill’s nib into a tiny well of liquid latinum, turned to balance the nib lightly above the parchment, and, with a sudden twist of his furry wrist, drew an elaborate swirl under the final line of text. Perfect, he thought. No one will suspect.

He polished the tip of the quill and returned the tool to its case, then glanced at his cluttered worktable. Now where did I put my alterizing beacon? He reached under a carelessly folded tapestry woven with figures of bateret leaves that lay across a toppled El-Aurian Angel of Flame crucible. I really must straighten this place up one day, he thought. Pulling a customized palm beacon from under the tapestry, he checked the setting carefully. Then slowly, very slowly, he passed the beacon’s ray over the parchment. The parchment shriveled. The colors transformed. The delicate work of art grew darker, a little murky—older, somehow. Finally he set the alterizer down, rolled the parchment into a scroll, and laid it next to another, identical, scroll. Then he carefully slid the scrolls into metallic cylinders, each elaborately decorated in ancient Ferengi motifs.

Leaning on his cane, Bartleby shuffled to the entrance of his workroom and opened the door. “Finished!” he said to his waiting client. “I think your employer will be quite pleased.” Placing the cylinders into the client’s hands, he stated, “Now remember, the original is in this cylinder, and the copy is in here. Do not mix them up.”

The client stared at the two cylinders for a long moment, then grunted in confirmation. Placing three bricks of latinum on the counter, he turned and left the dilapidated hovel.

As the echo of footsteps faded into the distance, Bartleby smiled and began to think about lunch.

Chapter 1

FOURTEEN YEARS LATER

2385 AC

Morning on Deep Space 9.

Or, rather, what passes for it in an artificial environment that offers no traditional clues as to the arrival of dawn or dusk.

The sound of Shmenge’s boot heels resonated as he exited the lift and walked along the perimeter of the Plaza.

All was peaceful in this section of the space station. The kiosks were closed up tight. So were most of the shops. The ambient lighting of the large open area was set low.

But Shmenge didn’t feel peaceful.

He felt grumpy.

Everybody is still sleeping, he thought. I should still be sleeping.

Quark recently had assigned Shmenge to the morning shift—“the sucker shift,” as the other bar employees referred to it. Hardly any customers came into Quark’s before the lunch hour—and the ones that did show up had a tendency to be grouchy, and cheap as a Vlugtan suit. (Shmenge had never met any Vlugtans, but their couturial reputation preceded them.)

His co-workers told Shmenge that Quark usually assigned the morning shift to employees that he wanted to punish for perceived infractions. Say, showing up late. Or breaking too many glasses. Or getting caught cheating a customer. (Cheating a customer was encouraged; getting caught by the customer was not.)

But as far as Shmenge knew, he hadn’t committed any infractions. In fact, his term as an apprentice at the bar had only benefited his employer. Hadn’t Shmenge broadened Quark’s revenue stream with those program upgrades he’d brought back from Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet? Hadn’t he demonstrated what a good teacher Quark was by siphoning a percentage of that very revenue for himself? What more could Quark expect from an apprentice?

His irritation at his shoddy treatment mounting, Shmenge began to mumble to himself, uttering a series of curses—some real, some made up (he had little experience with such expressions and had taken a creative approach to broadening his vocabulary). At last his anger boiled over.

“Blasted fladderap!” he spouted at the top of his lungs, his words echoing across the Plaza.

Horrified, Shmenge clapped his hands across his mouth. He hadn’t realized that he was speaking out loud.

But . . . it really didn’t matter. No one was around to hear him, anyway.

Everybody is sleeping. Everybody but me.

Quark’s Public House, Café, Gaming Emporium, Holosuite Arcade, and Ferengi Embassy was quiet when Shmenge entered. Broik was the only waiter on duty, a holdover from the night shift, and his only task was keeping an eye on things while the automated cleaners robo-sanitized the floors and freshened the ’fresher.

And Quark always made sure there was a dabo girl on call in the morning, “just in case.” Shmenge had yet to figure out what that case might be. Nobody ever played dabo in the morning. The assigned dabo girl—today it was M’Pella—usually spent the time snoozing on the big dabo table.

He saw Broik lazily rubbing a polishing rag against the brass handrail that led to the bar’s second level. The lower portion of the handrail already looked pretty shiny, but the portion near the top of the stairs—not so much. Shmenge thought about pointing that out, but Broik, spotting him, immediately broke into a snaggle-toothed grin and tossed him the polishing rag.

“Boy, am I relieved to see you,” he said, chuckling at his own wit as he headed for the front door.

Broik made that same joke every day. “Yeah, yeah—you’re relieved,” Shmenge responded, despite the fact that his co-worker was already out of earshot. He sighed and glanced around the large room.

Over at the dining tables, a young Bolian cautiously sampled the day’s replicated breakfast special—a “hash” consisting of whatever protein substance Quark had preprogrammed to resemble hash that day. At the bar, a rumpled Andorian downed a “hair of the targ” in hopes of fending off a hangover. Seeing as he’d been there six mornings in a row, Shmenge figured that the poor targ must be nearly bald by now.

With a clank and a rumble, the automated cleaner emerged from the ’fresher, its job done for the day. As Shmenge watched it roll down the back hallway and head for the storage closet, he noticed M’Pella standing near the door to Quark’s office.

Quark hardly ever comes in this early, he thought. I wonder what she’s . . . He was about to investigate when a shrill whistle grabbed his attention. He turned to see that the bar now had another customer—an ancient Grazerite male seated at a corner table.

Shmenge hustled over. “Yes, sir,” he said by rote. “What’ll it be?”

A pair of rheumy eyes rolled upward and focused on the waiter with difficulty. “What is today’s special?”

“It’s up on the sign, sir,” Shmenge said, pointing to the glowing letters on a nearby wall panel. “I’ll be right back after you’ve decided.”

And he ran back to the hallway. “What’s—” he began, then stopped as M’Pella placed a cautionary finger to her lips: the universal sign for “Shut Up.”

Apparently Quark was in his office, and M’Pella was eavesdropping. Shmenge approached cautiously. He listened for a second, noting the decibel level of Quark’s voice. “Who is he yelling at?” he whispered.

“Someone on the comm,” she mouthed. “But I can’t make out what it’s about.”

“Allow me,” Shmenge said, proudly gesturing at his large auricles. And he placed the cup of one ear against the door, bringing the conversation through loud and clear.

“WHEN?!” Quark was shouting. “It’s a reasonable question, Rom, and it’s not like I haven’t been asking it for weeks!”

Grand Nagus Rom’s transmitted response wasn’t quite as audible—he wasn’t shouting—but Shmenge could comprehend most of it. “. . . not sure, Brother. I’ve been very busy . . . negotiating new labor contract . . . maybe next month?”

“You said that LAST month!” Quark exploded in response. “Do you want people to say you’re shirking your nagal responsibilities? I can’t legitimately call this bar the new Ferengi embassy until the Grand Nagus dedicates it. And he has to be HERE to do that!”

Suddenly the shrill whistle again summoned Shmenge away from the door.

“Can’t read that,” said the Grazerite, pointing to the wall panel. “Letters are too small.”

The letters actually were quite large—and so bright that customers often complained that they hurt their eyes—but Shmenge opted not to mention that. No point eliminating the one opportunity he’d have to earn a tip this morning. “It’s hash, sir. Greebly hash.”

The Grazerite frowned and lowered his large hairy eyebrows in confusion, shading his eyes like an awning. “Greebly? What is that? Some sort of animal?”

Shmenge opened his mouth to respond, then shut it when he realized he had no idea what greebly was. “Um, could be. It sounds like an insect, doesn’t it? Or maybe a rodent.”

The ruminant’s face grew flushed. “Young man, do you think that Grazerites eat insects or rodents!” he said, his voice rising in indignation.

“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Shmenge admitted. “I try not to pry into customers’ personal lifestyles.” He tried to look thoughtful. “You know, it might not be rodent. Or insect. Why don’t I find out for you? And I’ll bring you a complimentary beverage when I come back.” He offered up what he hoped was a winning smile and dashed back to M’Pella and Quark—

—who was still, apparently, yelling at Rom. “Do you know what a well-publicized dedication ceremony would do for my business?” the boss’s voice rang through the door. “Everybody LOVES a good open house! Free appetizers! Free—no—half-priced drinks! Door prizes!”

“. . . don’t see how I can come now, Brother,” Rom’s voice responded. “You don’t know what it’s like trying to keep the ship of state afloat . . . sometimes . . . feel like I’m treading water—”

“I don’t care if you’re adrift in an evacuation dinghy! We’re talking about MY bar and MY embassy and MY welfare! Have you gotten so selfish that you don’t care about—” There was a pause, and Shmenge thought he heard the sound of a third voice, this one sweet and feminine and softer than that of the Grand Nagus. In apparent response, Quark said, “Oh. Hello, Leeta. You’re looking, umm, fit. I was just telling your husband that—what are you—no, wait—DON’T PUT ME ON HOLD!”

And suddenly Shmenge was listening to hold music: a recording of a popular Ferengi dance tune—“Tickle My Lobes and Tell Me That You Love Me”—covered by an enthusiastic Algolian synth band. It was a snappy little number that Shmenge liked, but Quark apparently didn’t have any fondness for it. His scream of frustration was so loud that Shmenge was forced to leap away from the door, rubbing his ear frantically.

Just in time to once again hear the Grazerite’s impatient whistle.

Grabbing the first beverage he came across behind the bar, Shmenge hurried back to his customer and set it before him.

The Grazerite’s eyes bulged as he stared at the bottle. “What in Gre’thor—Romulan ale? Is this what you call a breakfast beverage?”

Shmenge did a double take as he glanced at the bottle. “Oops! Sorry about that.” He reached for it. “I’ll bring you some nice Tarkalean tea—”

But the Grazerite slapped his hand away. “I didn’t say I didn’t want it. Leave it right there while you tell me about greebly.”

Shmenge sighed and pulled out the small padd he kept in his back pocket. “Greebly is . . . hmmm.” He glanced over at his customer. “So . . . are Grazerites fond of small reptiles?”

The Grazerite uttered a sharp grunt of disgust.

“Well, maybe you want to skip today’s special. But I think we may be able to program some Cardassian groatmeal. I’m told it’s very . . . uh . . . groaty. The Cardassians seem to like it.”

The Grazerite struggled to his feet. “Never mind,” he harrumphed. “I’ll go to the Replimat.”

The ancient creature began to totter away, then suddenly returned to grab the bottle Shmenge had brought him. “You did say it was complimentary,” he snapped as he shuffled off.

Shmenge watched in dismay, realizing the tab for the pricey Romulan beverage would be deducted from his pay.

This day is not getting any better, he thought. He glanced over at Quark’s door, noting that M’Pella had gotten bored and wandered over to the dabo table to resume her nap.

Shmenge contemplated his next move. He supposed he could finish polishing the brass rail.

On the other hand, it might be worth his time to hear the end of Quark’s conversation with the Nagus. As the 9th Rule says: Opportunity plus instinct equals profit.

Placing his ear against the door, he noticed that the hold music was still playing. It really is a catchy tune, Shmenge thought, and he began to hum along.

Chapter 2

Leeta leaned over Rom’s shoulder, smiled at the face on the monitor, and said, “I need to speak with Rom for a minute.” Her brother-in-law’s “DON’T PUT ME ON HOLD! ” hung in the air as she decisively jabbed the pause button. You can’t tell me what to do anymore, Quark! she thought. Lively electronic music filled the room as the Ferengi symbol of state replaced the agitated face on the monitor.

Rom twisted his head around to look at her in surprise. “Why did you do that?” he asked. “That’s just going to make him even madder.”

“I don’t want him to hear me.” The lovely Bajoran pressed her silky cheek against her husband’s. “Oh, Rom,” she said softly. “I hate to say it, but Quark is right. Dedicating the new embassy is your responsibility. You’ve been so busy trying to handle everything here at home that you’ve neglected your off-world commitments. Ferenginar won’t collapse if you leave for a little while to do what needs to be done elsewhere. Everything here will have to wait. But so what? It’s like the seventh diagonal spin of the dabo wheel. It’s a necessary move, even though the best result is that there’s no harm done.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Rom said, glancing back at the symbol rotating on the screen. “But I’m not sure that the Congress of Economic Advisors would agree with you about no harm being done. They’re already upset with me because of all the delays. I think that I’d rather have just my brother mad at me.”

“Don’t be silly!” Leeta said with a smile. “They won’t be mad at you, because Quark will invite all those same advisors to the dedication! They’ll be off-planet too. And they won’t be thinking about that unresolved labor situation—they’ll be thinking about dabo girls and free appetizers! The trip will be like a vacation for them. And,” she whispered, her lips delicately brushing her husband’s lobe, “it’ll be one for us too. Kind of like a second honeymoon.”

And then she giggled, a sweet little sound that Rom could never resist. As he gazed at Leeta’s face, he felt that old quivery feeling, that tiny inner click, the one that overwhelmed him every time he saw the beautiful wrinkled bridge of her nose. Suddenly all concerns about being Grand Nagus dissipated. “I’d like that,” he admitted, “but do you really think the space station would be a good place for a second honeymoon?”

“Why not? We had our first honeymoon there—remember?”

“I kind of remember that the Dominion War got in the way for a while.”

“Yes, but it did finally happen, didn’t it?” Leeta pressed.

“Yeah,” Rom admitted, blushing. “Yeah. It sure did.” Suddenly he laughed. The tension in his shoulders visibly disappeared, and Leeta knew she was going to win. But to close the deal, she added a few incentives.

“And just think, Rom. We can see some of our old friends. You can get together with Chief O’Brien and the other engineers. And I can catch up with my friends at the bar. Maybe we can even take a day trip to Bajor. I know my relatives would love to see Bena. They haven’t seen her since she was a baby.”

Rom sighed. “It’s too bad Nog is away on assignment. Bena would have loved to see her brother.”

Leeta smiled inwardly. “Then you’ll do it?”

“You know I can’t say no to you,” he answered. “Especially when you’re right.”

Rom—feeling like Grand Nagus Rom once again—reached for the pause button. But Leeta abruptly climbed into his lap and enveloped him in a hug. “I knew there was a reason I married you. You are just the sweetest man in the galaxy.” And she pressed her warm, wonderful lips against his.

The Nagus’s hand wavered, then slowly moved away from the button as he wrapped his arms around his wife. Quark was only an ambassador. He could wait another minute for the good news.

Or maybe two.

Yielding to his early morning drowsiness, Shmenge leaned against Quark’s office door. A dreamy image of his own private shuttle drifting into a latinum asteroid field floated through his head. Just as a glistening dollop of the precious liquid splattered against the shuttle’s viewscreen, an earsplitting whoop of victory erupted from Quark’s office. Startled, Shmenge leaped backward—

—And crashed into a crate of empty bottles stacked near the door.

Bewildered, the young Ferengi was staring at the mess he’d created when his boss, grinning with joy, burst out of his office.

Quark saw Shmenge and the mess. His grin turned to a scowl. “How many times do I have to tell you?” he barked. “You don’t have to break down the containers before you recycle them!”

And then, despite his irritation, the barkeep began to smile again. “Now clean that up. We’re gonna have company.” He stepped behind the bar and poured himself a large glass of snail juice, tipping it toward his apprentice in an imaginary toast. “A lot of company.”

To Shmenge’s surprise, Quark began to hum a melody. At least he thought it was a melody. It sounded, vaguely, like “Tickle My Lobes and Tell Me That You Love Me.”

Chapter 3

Captain Ro Laren, commander of Deep Space 9, cast a near apologetic smile at the officer seated across from her. “It might be a little early for us to be meeting about this,” she said. “But Quark has been pestering me daily, so I figured we might as well get it over with.”

“Nothing new there,” commented Lieutenant Commander Jefferson Blackmer, the station’s chief of security. “He’s always a pest. I suspect he’s just trying to use this phony ceremony as leverage to take additional liberties.”

Ro sighed. “That’s just it—it’s not a phony ceremony. It’s true that it doesn’t directly affect Starfleet—or even Bajor, for that matter—but the event will draw attention our way, so we need to make sure that we’re on top of things. In any event, the Federation Council did grant permission for Ferenginar to open an official embassy on the old station with all the appropriate ruffles and flourishes. So we can’t very well deny the Ferengi ambassador permission to hold a dedication ceremony for the new embassy, can we?”

“Same ambassador, same Nagus, and pretty much the same embassy—it just seems a little redundant,” Blackmer commented, but Ro could tell from his tone that he was resigned to the situation. “All right, I’ll notify the dock master that we’ll be expecting additional traffic on the outer docking ring that day. And I’ll assign an extra security detail to the Plaza for the duration of the event.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Ro said. “I’m sure you’ll keep everything on the station running smoothly, despite the influx of dignitaries.”

Blackmer rose from his chair. “About that: Has Quark finalized his invitation list yet? All I really need is a number, because it’s unlikely the Ferengi, uh, ‘dignitaries’ will cause any major problems. Still, I need to know how many extra people to put on standby.”

“That is an excellent question,” Ro responded. “He’s been a little evasive on that point. I think I’ll go pester him for a change.”

Blackmer nodded as she got to her feet. “Thank you, sir,” he said crisply.

“I’ll send you the list as soon as I get him to commit to it, Jeff. Dismissed.”

Chief Miles O’Brien was tucking into a meal at Quark’s when Ro entered the bar. For a moment, she was surprised to see him; the chief engineer usually took dinner in his quarters with his wife, Keiko, and their two children, Molly and Kirayoshi. Then she remembered that Keiko had been asked to lecture at a botanical seminar being staged at the Hedrikspool Nature Preserve on Bajor. Apparently she’d taken the children with her.

She paused at his table. “Roughing it, huh?”

O’Brien smiled and dabbed a bit of mustard from the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Just for the day,” he responded. “They’ll all be back on the last shuttle. Keiko doesn’t want them to miss classes tomorrow.” Suddenly it occurred to him that he’d been remiss in his manners. “Would you care to join me, Captain?”

Ro shook her head. “I just stopped by to talk to Quark.” She glanced around and didn’t immediately spot him. “Is he . . . ?”

O’Brien gestured down the long corridor that led to the facility’s “employees only” area. “In his office,” he said between sips of synthale. “Hetik says he’s been in there for the better part of two days.”

“Thanks,” Ro said, heading in that direction.

The door to Quark’s office was open, but she hesitated before entering. It sounded like “Ambassador Quark” was addressing someone.

“So in order to prep the area and make sure that we have enough room for all of the guests, I’ll have to close the bar to the public that entire day. That’ll mean a loss of approximately . . .”

She heard the tap-tap-tap of Quark’s polished fingernails against the surface of a padd. Then, once again, his voice: “Yow!” he exclaimed. “That’s a lot of latinum! Maybe I should charge for the appetizers.” A pause. Then: “No. No. People expect free appetizers at a big event. It’s a given. I’ll just have to make it up in the charges for those ‘special half-priced celebratory drinks with commemorative glasses.’ The guests won’t know what their original price was anyway.”

Realizing that the ambassador was talking only to himself, Ro reached in and knocked on the wall next to the open door. But if Quark heard the sound, he chose to ignore it. “What to serve, what to serve . . . hmm. Aldebaran Shellmouth Fritters with Tartaras Sauce. That looks tasty. But it takes forever to pry the damn things open. Labor costs would be outrageous! Now, parthas soufflé! That’s nice and simple. And it doesn’t require much chewing.”

Ro knocked again, more insistently.

“Go away, Hetik!” Quark said. “I told you, I’m extremely busy.” He pushed a button on a door control module under his desk and the door began to slide closed.

“Busy, huh,” Ro said, stepping back. “Okay, fine. I’ll keep that in mind the next time you want to see me.”

“Ro? Don’t go!” She heard Quark push his chair back and jump to his feet, in the process knocking something, or several somethings, off of his desk and onto the floor with a loud clatter. A few seconds later—Ro envisioned him straightening his jacket so that he’d look his best—he opened the door.

Stepping into the office, she stopped with her arms folded across her chest. “You’re sure, Quark?” she inquired. “I could just leave and come back at a more convenient time—say, next millennium.”

Quark sighed. “Sorry, sorry. Come in. I got caught up in planning. I don’t have a lot of time to pull this together. Please—have a seat.”

He gestured at the visitor’s chair across from his desk, which, Ro noted, was covered by a half-dozen padds and some unwieldy charts. Sweeping it all onto the floor—where the items joined more of the same—he gestured again at the chair. “Sit. Please. Would you like a cup of raktajino?”

“No, thank you.” Ro sat. “So,” she said, taking in the barely controlled chaos of what usually was a tidy—well, tidier—work area. “Embassy Dedication Day.”

“I haven’t actually decided on what to call it yet,” he said quickly. “I’m not sure if ‘Dedication Day’ has the right mix of solemnity, excitement, and fun. It needs to be something that says it all, particularly to the VIFs that will be attending.” At her blank expression, he clarified: “Very Important Ferengi.”

“That’s what I came for,” the commander stated. “Your guest—sorry. Your VIF list.”

Quark shuffled through the assorted padds until he found the one he wanted, then offered it to her. Ro glanced at all the other padds strewn around the room before she accepted it. “You do know that you don’t need a separate padd for each aspect of your planning, don’t you?”

“Of course,” he responded. “But this makes it easier for me to see everything at the same time.”

Ro nodded dismissively and studied the list in front of her. “Let’s see: Rom, of course; Leeta and Bena; Zek and Ishka—”

“Family. Those were the easy ones,” Quark interjected. “All comp, unfortunately.” He sighed.

“Comp? Wait—you mean the rest of them aren’t complimentary?” She stared at him. “You’re charging your guests to attend?”

Quark shrugged. “It’s traditional. No Ferengi would be caught dead at a party where he didn’t have to bribe the host to gain attendance.” He showed her a sample invitation. Neatly printed at the bottom were the initials RSVP, followed by a long string of numbers. “This,” he explained, “means Response Signifies Vault Payment.”

“And those numbers?”

“The routing number for my personal vault account at the Bank of Bolias. On the night of the party, the person at the door checks to make sure the guest has submitted payment. No payment, no admittance. Unless, of course, they bring latinum. Latinum is always good, although payment at the door will be a bit higher.”

Ro shook her head slowly, trying to take in the information. Just when she thought she knew Quark pretty well . . .

She exhaled slowly, moving this little tidbit of information to the back of her mind. “Okay, so let’s see who else is on the list. Trapunto, Boucle, Kruller, Chintz, Schlecht—”

“Members of the Congress of Economic Advisors.”

“Krax, Nilva, Sluggo— Wait. The Sluggo? The guy who invented Eelwasser and Slug-o-Cola?”

“Common misconception,” Quark corrected patiently. “Sluggo was the co-inventor of Eelwasser. Along with his partner Vorp, Gint-rest-his-soul.” Quark shuddered briefly. Vorp’s miserable fate—going from riches to rags to dying destitute (not to mention being devoured by ravenous albino fangcats) haunted every entrepreneur. “And”—he moved on quickly—“Sluggo didn’t actually invent Slug-o-Cola either. He just let the corporation use his likeness on the label. For a lot of latinum, I might add. But he’s still one of the most respected men in Ferengi history.”

“More than I needed to know,” said Ro. “So . . . is this Sluggo still alive?”

Quark shrugged. “Who knows? No one’s seen him in years. But I thought it was worth inviting him. Just letting people know that he’s on the guest list will raise the profile of the event. And if he shows up,” he added, eyes glinting, “all the better!”

She continued reading. “Gral, Kain, Zoid—you’re right, this is a regular Who’s Who of dignitaries. And they all said yes? That’s quite a coup, Quark.”

Quark cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well, uh, some of them haven’t responded yet.”

Something in his tone made Ro look up and study him carefully. “How many is ‘some’?”

“Well,” Quark said slowly, “everybody on the list, except for Rom and Leeta and Ishka and Zek, and . . .”

Ro studied him for a second, her dark gaze suddenly sympathetic. “None of the VIFs said yes? How did you invite them?”

“I contacted them all personally. A few who took my communication told me that they’d get back to me. A few more said that they’d think about it.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“And I left messages for the rest. Nobody has communicated back.”

“Nobody?” Ro said, honestly shocked. “The dedication of a Ferengi embassy is a big deal. You’d think they’d all want to be here. What seems to be the problem?”

“I’m not sure,” Quark confessed. “It might be that they feel that they already paid their regards when they attended the dedication of the Ferengi embassy on the old station.”

“Literally paid their regards,” Ro interpreted.

“Well, yes,” he admitted. “Although in my opinion that would be very petty. A good party is a good party, especially when the Grand Nagus will be there. This would be an opportunity for them to see Rom without an appointment.”

“Is it that hard to get an appointment?” Ro asked.

“No—but it’s expensive. Almost as expensive as an RSVP. The difference being, if they spend the money to attend the dedication, they also get the value-added extras. Exquisite refreshments. Top-notch entertainment. New costumes on the dabo girls.” He picked up a glittery piece of ribbon from the floor. “What do you think?”

She fingered the fabric. “Very pretty. Where’s the rest of it?”

Quark looked puzzled. “The rest of what?”

“The costume—” Ro rolled her eyes. “Never mind. I get it. Well, I hope you get the turnout you’re looking for.”

The Ferengi looked at her with a tentative smile. “Actually, I was thinking of asking whether you might be able to help.”

Her eyes bored into him. “Help how, Quark?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe ask Starfleet Command to donate a little . . . something that I could give away during the ceremony. Nothing big. Just something I could advertise that would convince the holdouts to say yes.”

“Something like—?” she prompted.

“Like . . . uh . . . special permission—for one time only, of course—for the winner to be allowed to transport cargo that’s typically embargoed . . . into Federation space. Or”—he added quickly, noting the way she was clenching her jaw—“maybe just a simple reduction in import fees for cargo that . . . uh . . . occasionally competes with that of Federation partners.”

Ro didn’t say anything. She simply got to her feet and headed for the door.

“Laren, wait.”

She stopped, but kept her back to him.

“Look,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. I need those people to come.” He paused, not really wanting to bare his soul but realizing that he had no choice. “If they don’t come”—his voice dropped noticeably—“what’s the point of having a Ferengi embassy if the important Ferengi won’t bother to acknowledge that it exists?”

At last, Ro turned to face him. She no longer felt angry. She felt . . . sad.

“I’m sorry, Quark,” she said. “I can’t offer Starfleet favors for you to use as door prizes. But I know you’ll come up with something. You always do.” She glanced out into the bar. “Ask some of your employees. Maybe they’ve got an angle you haven’t considered.”

“Unlikely,” Quark muttered unhappily.

“Well, why don’t you ask them?” she said.

The door closed behind her.

Chapter 4

Quark stared at the space Ro had occupied a few seconds earlier. He hadn’t asked her to come see him. She’d come on her own. Sure, she’d only wanted to know how much security to add, but she could have sent Blackmer for that. Or just commed him. But she hadn’t. She’d come in person. Thinking about Ro thinking about him made him feel better.

And there was something else: She’d made a suggestion that he never would have thought of on his own. It might even work. And if it doesn’t, I can always blame it on her.

Stepping over a tumble of padds, he exited the room. Out in the bar, he saw that Frool was busy with several customers, among them Miles O’Brien, who was ordering a beverage—an after-dinner beverage, judging by the small gravy stain on his uniform jacket. In contrast, the dabo tables were idle, meaning Hetik, the dabo boy, was idle as well. “Hetik,” Quark called out, “come over here. And Frool too. I need to talk to you both.”

Frool handed the drink he’d just mixed to a customer and made his way over to Quark just as Hetik arrived. “Listen, you two,” Quark began. “I need some help.”

Both employees groaned in anticipation of whatever mindless task he was about to ask them to perform. But the boss surprised them. “You know about the embassy dedication I’m planning,” he said. “Well, RSVPs are coming in way too slow. I need to devise an incentive that will make them fly in.”

Silence. The two bar workers stared at him vacantly. Quark sighed. “I want you to help me think of an incentive,” he clarified. “Can either of you—”

A customer approached the counter and waved an empty glass at the group. Frool said, “Hang on, Boss,” and he hurried over to refill the man’s drink. Quark waited patiently until he returned. “So what I need is—”

A somewhat inebriated female tottered over to the bar, seated herself on a stool, and looked around quizzically. This time Hetik, happy to help, answered the call.

This isn’t working, Quark thought in annoyance. Then, just beyond Hetik and his customer, he saw Shmenge, dressed in his finest street clothing, standing on the wrong side of the bar. The youth nodded pleasantly at Miles O’Brien. “Chief,” he said, by way of greeting.

“Shmenge,” responded O’Brien. “And where are you headed, all gussied up?”

“I just stopped in for a small beverage before I catch the shuttle to Bajor,” he said. “There’s a poetry reading at—”

“Poetry reading’s canceled,” Quark interrupted. “Surprised you haven’t heard.”

Shmenge stared at him in bewilderment. “What? Since when?”

“Since now,” Quark said sharply. “They ran out of words that rhyme. Now get behind the bar and wait on the customers while I talk to Hetik and Frool.”

“But—I’m off duty,” Shmenge protested. “I’m on the morning shift.”

“And now you’re on the evening shift. Which is what you wanted, right?”

“Well, y-yes, but I’m all dressed up—”

“Yes, I noticed you were out of uniform. I’ll forgive it this time. Don’t let it happen again.”

Frool and Hetik flashed sympathetic looks at the slack-jawed Shmenge, then dutifully turned back to Quark, who relaunched the topic at hand.

“Incentive!” he reiterated. “It seems that just holding a ceremony isn’t enough to get people to come,” he said. “So what would be better than an almost free party?”

“A really free party?” Hetik offered.

Quark scowled at the handsome Bajoran. “Get serious!” He glanced at Frool. “What would make you come?”

“Um,” said Frool, unused to using the creative part of his brain. “I . . . uh . . .”

Shmenge hustled past the trio to fill a mug with steaming raktajino. “How about—”

But Quark cut him off. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?” he snapped.

Shmenge glared at Quark but said nothing as he began to back away with the drink. As he passed Frool, he paused to whisper something into his co-worker’s ear. Then he scurried away.

“Oh!” Frool said, his eyes lighting up. “Oh, right! How about asking that Vulcan Love Slave lady—that T’lana—to come by and sign autographs for the guests?”

Remembering the extremely attractive star of Quark’s most profitable holosuite program, Hetik nodded enthusiastically. It clearly hadn’t come from Frool’s limited imagination, but a good idea was a good idea.

Quark frowned. “I already thought of that. She’s otherwise engaged.”

In fact, T’lana—or whatever her real name was—and her writing partner, Pel, were both extremely busy, commissioned to create a musical production of Vulcan Love Slave for the new entertainment dome being constructed as part of the massive Federation revitalization project on Risa. Quark couldn’t stand the thought of how much profit they stood to gain if the endeavor was a success.

Which, knowing how deliciously devious the two fe-males were, it probably would be.

“How about a raffle?” Hetik submitted. “You could send a raffle ticket to each of the people on your list and tell them they have a chance to win something—but only if they show up in person.”

“Free raffle tickets?” Quark sputtered. “Are you insane? And besides, what could I possibly offer that they don’t already have?”

Hetik had his answer ready: “There’s a really nice spa that’s opened on the Plaza’s second level. You could give away some day passes to the place. They have a package called ‘Glorious Rebirth’ that offers customers the opportunity to be immersed ‘in an atmosphere of sanctuary and peace that rejuvenates both the mind and the body.’ ”

Everyone within earshot turned to stare at Hetik. “You go to a spa?” Frool said.

“I have to look good for my dabo players, don’t I?” Hetik replied defensively. “And they carry some truly wonderful hair care products up there.”

Frool idly extended a hand toward Hetik’s admittedly silky locks, but dropped it when Quark squawked, “Ferengi don’t have hair, you idiot!”

“Oh yeah?” retorted the Bajoran. “Then what’s that in your ears?”

In the heavy, fuming silence that followed, O’Brien took the opportunity to speak up. “Am I allowed to participate here?” he asked, then went on before anyone could raise an objection. “It seems to me that I’d come if there was something in the embassy that I couldn’t possibly see anywhere else.”

Quark, Frool, and Hetik turned to look at him.

“I once took a shuttle all the way to the Nua Éire colony to see a traveling exhibition from Trinity College Library,” the chief said. “They had some amazing books—original manuscripts by Swift and Wilde, hundreds of years old, and—”

Quark was stunned. “Books!” he bellowed. “You left the quadrant to see books? No one in his right mind would go somewhere to look at a book!”

Frool chuckled. “And old books at that!”

“Well, pardon me,” O’Brien said, visibly stung. “It was only a suggestion. I forgot that I was dealing with a species that doesn’t read.”

“Of course we read,” growled Quark. “But the only book that matters is the Rules of Acquisition, and every schoolkid has a copy of that.”

“But not the original scroll,” Shmenge piped up from the far end of the counter. “I’d go to see that! I’d even pay to see that. My father told me about how he saw the scroll at a special exhibition on Ferenginar when he was just a lobling. He said it was so beautiful, written on delicate parchment, and decorated with dried liquid latinum. It looked just the way it did when Gint created it over ten thousand years ago!”

“And how would your father know how it looked ten thousand years ago?” Quark muttered under his breath.

But the other people at the bar seemed quite taken with Shmenge’s passionate recollection.

“Well, I don’t know about you, Quark,” said O’Brien. “But personally, I’d love to see that.”

“Me too!” Hetik said, with what seemed to be genuine enthusiasm.

“Wow! That would be something, wouldn’t it?” Frool said to the inebriated woman on the barstool.

She nodded. “I don’t even know what it is, but it’s got you guys so worked up that I’m dying to get a look at it.”

“But would you pay to look at it?” Quark asked skeptically.

“Why not?” she responded. “I’m paying just to sit here and look at Pretty Boy. Speaking of which . . .” She glanced over at Hetik. “Hey, Pretty Boy, can I have another Black Hole?”

As Hetik rustled up the beverage for her, Quark scanned the faces of the people sitting at the bar. Every customer down the line was yammering about the ancient scroll. Considering the only Ferengi in the place were behind the counter, Quark thought this might be a good sign.

“No one on Ferenginar has seen the original scroll for years,” he murmured, the wheels in his head spinning. “Zek put it into protective storage after the attempted break-in at the Vaults of Opulence.”

Shmenge studied him quizzically. “An attempted break-in at the Vaults? I never heard about that.”

“Before your time,” Quark said dismissively.

“Yes, but I took a class in Ferenginar’s historic heirlooms. Wouldn’t that have been mentioned?”

“No, Mister Smarty Lobes, it wouldn’t. No one wanted to start a panic, thinking our most important relic was nearly snatched. It was covered up.”

Shmenge narrowed his eyes. “Then how do you know about it?”

“Because my cousin Kono was the one who tried to break in. He was permanently exiled from Ferenginar for it. Family tragedy.”

“Oh!” Shmenge responded, taken aback. “I’m sorry.”

Quark shrugged. “I never liked him anyway. When we were growing up, he tried to steal Rom’s collection of lichens. Rom had been saving them for years—putting the samples in this little case, all individually labeled. It was worthless and a stupid waste of time, but Rom loved them. I got them back for him.”

“You’re a good brother,” Shmenge said, briefly impressed.

“Well, it was either that or listen to him whimpering every night for the next three months. We shared a room back then.”

Shmenge nodded absently. “So I guess there’s no way to get the scroll out of protective storage.”

Quark looked at him in surprise. “I didn’t say that. In fact, I think I’ll take care of that right now.”

And he walked cheerfully toward his office. “The Sacred Scroll of the Rules of Acquisition,” he said, just loud enough for Shmenge to hear him. “Great idea. Glad I thought of it.”

Chapter 5

Rom rubbed his eyes sleepily as he stumbled down the hallway from the bedroom to his study. He’d been awakened from a pleasant dream by the piercingly loud waah-waah-waah of an incoming message on the special comm dedicated exclusively to Extraordinary Pecuniary Prospects. Since Leeta had given Rom’s staff specific directions never to put through anything but an urgent communication to the nagal residence after 2300 hours, Rom couldn’t help but feel a tad anxious. Seating himself at his desk, he pushed a button on the gold-pressed latinum–plated computer and found himself addressing the image of Krax, his First Clerk. “Wh-what is it?”

“Your brother says he must speak with you immediately,” the former Nagus’s son reported sourly.

“Quark? Why would he be calling now? Doesn’t he know what time it is?”

“I don’t think he cares,” Krax responded. “He says it’s a life or”—Krax yawned loudly—“life or death situation.”

Rom broke into a cold sweat. “Life or death,” he repeated nervously. “Whose life or death?”

“Knowing Quark, probably his own,” Krax said. “Can I put him through so I can go back to bed?”

It was only then that Rom realized that Krax was wearing a nightshirt. “Um, okay. Put him through.”

A second later, he found himself staring at the grinning visage of his older brother.

“I have wonderful news, Rom!” Quark said cheerfully. “You’re going to be the most popular VIF on Ferenginar!”

Rom blinked. “Uhh, what do you mean, Brother?”

“You know how I was just a little concerned about how slowly the RSVPs for the dedication were coming in? Well, I just happened to mention it in passing to your very good friend Chief O’Brien, and the chief came up with a brilliant—well, brilliant for a hew-mon, anyway—suggestion about how to get everyone on the invitation list—all those other VIFs—to respond immediately! It’ll make you a hero, and you owe it all to your old friend!”

“The chief?” Rom said, confused. “What did the chief say?”

“He suggested that when you come to the station, you bring along the original scroll of the Rules of Acquisition. No one has seen it in years. We’ll put it on display, courtesy of the exalted Grand Nagus Rom.”

“Wait—what?” Rom’s bewilderment solidified into horror. “The original scroll? Brother, that’s locked away in the Vaults of Opulence. I can’t just go in there and take it. It’s priceless!”

Quark made a tsk-tsk sound. “Rom, Rom, Rom. You’re the Nagus, aren’t you? Everything is within your power. Frool—you remember Frool—was standing right next to me when O’Brien suggested it. He thought it was a sensational idea. Everyone in the bar thought it was a sensational idea.”

“Everyone in the bar?” Rom squeaked, his alarm growing. “Everyone heard about this?”

“Everyone,” Quark emphasized firmly. “And you wouldn’t want them to think that you’d pass up on a glorious opportunity like this, would you? You wouldn’t want the chief to think you felt it was beneath you to take the advice of your old mentor on the station. You wouldn’t want any of them to think that you were unable to exert the influence of your office. Or that you didn’t have the nerve. I mean, if you can’t make this kind of bold executive decision, what’s the point of even being the Nagus—let alone the Grand Nagus?”

“I—I—I don’t know. I should talk to Leeta about it.” As a rule, Rom never made any important decision without seeking Leeta’s advice.

Quark’s grin wavered. “Rom, I know that you love Leeta and that you . . . respect her opinion on domestic matters. But the simple fact is—she’s not a Ferengi. She can’t possibly understand how important this opportunity will be to other Ferengi. And to the embassy. Only you can make this decision.” He paused, providing a chance for that to sink in, then added, “And by the way—you need to make that decision right away. I have new and improved invitations to send out.”

It took a while longer, but when Rom at last signed off, Quark was smiling. Rom wasn’t sure what the look on his own face was, but that didn’t matter.

What mattered was how he was going to tell Leeta in the morning.

Chapter 6

You are invited to a Gala Event, on the 5th day of Ha’mara @ 1900 hours

Dedication of the new and extremely costly

Ferengi Embassy on Space Station Deep Space 9

Officiated by Grand Nagus Rom

Hosted by Quark, the Esteemed Ferengi Ambassador to Bajor

(and Owner/Operator of Quark’s Public House, Café, Gaming Emporium, Holosuite Arcade & Ferengi Embassy)

Conceivable guests include:

Nilva, Chairman, Slug-o-Cola,

Former Grand Nagus Zek,

Ferenginar’s Top Ten Business Magnates,

The Ferengi Congress of Economic Advisors,

Sluggo (if alive),

And a host of others too important to name at this time!

Special Showing of the Ancient Original Scroll of the Ferengi Rules of Acquisition!!!!!!!*

(*Additional viewing fee required)

Free Appetizers! Half-Priced Drinks! Clothed Fe-males!

Limited Space! Contact Ambassador Quark @ DS9 Today!!!

Comp/Amb. Q.

RSVP: 10055500037895

“Enter,” Ro said absently. Her office door slid open, and she glanced up to see a young Ferengi waiter hovering near the threshold. Other than a nervous jitter, however, he didn’t seem to be moving. “May I help you?” she prompted.

“Um, sorry to bother you, sir. I have a special delivery for you.” Stepping forward, he handed Ro a small envelope composed of what appeared to be replicated antique vellum. “It’s an invitation,” the youth said, and he began to back away.

“Wait,” the captain said. “I may send a response.” Lifting the flap, she pulled out a card and studied the embossed wording with a raised eyebrow, in particular the handwritten notation at the bottom, indicating that Ambassador Quark personally had comped the invitation.

Does this mean he thinks of me as family? she wondered, feeling just a modicum of amusement. Then she noticed that the waiter still held a small stack of envelopes.

“Are you delivering a number of these, um—what is your name, by the way?”

“Shmenge, ma’am. I mean, sir. Uh, I mean . . .”

“Just call me Captain, Shmenge,” Ro said. “I see that Quark has you making rounds.”

“Yes . . . Captain. He asked me to deliver these to a small group of residents. He seemed very selective about who . . .” The youth stopped, sensing that he was babbling. Ro reached out toward the envelopes, and after a moment of hesitation, he handed them over.

“Chief O’Brien, Odo, Captain Sisko . . .” she recited as she read the names on the envelopes. She smiled at the jittery youth and returned the envelopes. “Sounds like fun. Please tell Ambassador Quark that Captain Ro will be happy to attend.”

“Yes, Captain,” Shmenge said, once again backing toward the door. This time she didn’t stop him.

As he delivered the remaining envelopes, Shmenge felt relief each time a recipient did not ask him to wait. Rather than dawdle in anticipation of a response, he rushed away just as they began to open the invitation.

Miles O’Brien, spotting the line about the ancient scroll, handed the card to his wife and remarked, “Well, I’ll be damned. For once Quark actually paid attention to something I said.”

Keiko, former schoolteacher that she was, read it carefully and asked, “What does ‘conceivable guests’ mean, Miles? I can conceive of just about anyone as a guest, but it doesn’t mean that they’ll be there.”

“Exactly,” her husband responded with a knowing smile.

On the outer docking ring, Captain Benjamin Sisko, prepping to take the U.S.S. Robinson out on a priority mission, picked up a padd and distractedly sent his regrets.

And in his guest quarters, former head of security Odo, station-bound until Starfleet allocated time for Sisko to transport him to the secure facility where a possible Changeling artifact was located, read through the invitation carefully. Then he uttered his traditional one-syllable response to anything conceived by Quark: “HAWW!”

Quark popped out of his office, clutching a padd in his left hand. He circled the bar, turned—and disappeared back into the office. Broik and Hetik watched the door close behind him. It was the third time they’d seen him repeat this little demonstration. Something, they both sensed, was making their boss tense—and that, in turn, made them tense. A moment passed before the Ferengi popped out and circled the bar once more. Broik considered saying something, although he wasn’t sure what that would be, then dropped the idea as Quark abruptly swerved and headed toward the big dabo table.

Standing on the far side of the table, Hetik stiffened in anticipation of . . . well, he couldn’t begin to guess. But before Quark reached him, the padd in the barkeep’s hand emitted a beep. And then a second beep. And a third. Quark halted to look down at the screen. “Well, finally,” he said, and his face broke into a self-congratulatory smile. “It’s working!”

And he quickly returned to his office, this time to remain within.

The opportunity for a rare glimpse at Gint’s original scroll was eliciting just the reaction Quark wanted. As RSVPs continued to roll in, and the balance in his personal account at the Bank of Bolias increased, Ambassador Quark’s happy smile expanded into a rapacious grin.

Now, he thought, just one more thing. I need to make sure that everyone in the quadrant hears about this soiree, so that potential customers who weren’t invited will want to attend—and pay through the nose to get in. Resistance, he chuckled to himself, is futile. As the 284th Rule says, “Deep inside, everyone’s a Ferengi.”

Seating himself, Quark activated his desk comm. Now, what was that frequency again?

Remembering, he keyed in the number. With a flash, a logo filled his screen, an interlocking cluster of polygons encircled by the name: FEDERATION NEWS SERVICE. Quark cleared his throat and addressed the site’s voice-recognition component.

“I need to speak to Eisla Darvis.”

Chapter 7

The Fifth Day of Ha’mara—1813 Hours

Exquisite, Quark thought.

No other word could describe it. The re-dressed bar was exquisite. Every horizontal surface gleamed, burnished to an intense luster. Every vertical surface glistened, freshly lacquered in deep, rich jewel tones. The barstools, each reupholstered in pricey (but discounted) Corinthian leather, awaited the appreciative bottoms that would settle there. Across the room, a vast buffet of delectable replicated dishes from every corner of the quadrant rested on tables arranged to encircle a life-size ice sculpture of Gint, one hand outstretched in a symbolic offering of eternal prosperity, the other clenched into a tight fist, confirming that once you’ve achieved prosperity, you’re under no obligation to share. That frozen fist would draw the admiring eye of every entering VIF.

Exquisite, Quark thought again. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

Feeling more like an ambassador by the minute, he turned to inspect his staff. The male employees, attentively standing behind the serving counter, wore crisp new uniforms designed by Raldo of Tavela Minor, the tailor who’d replaced Garak following the Dominion War. As for the fe-male employees, they wore the chic, barely there design that had originated in Quark’s own vivid imagination.

Finally, the barkeep rested his eyes on the pièce de résistance stacked high in the center of the room: a towering pyramid of crystal champagne glasses from a manufacturer in the far-off exotic territory of Ohio, on Earth. The glasses, he knew, were a frivolous embellishment. Very few of his patrons were likely to order champagne. But something about the gleaming tower, which he’d first noted in a holovid titled “Culinary Arts and Celebratory Stylings Through the Ages—and Across the Universe!” appealed to his imagination. The glittering, delicately balanced display of fragile stemware whispered to him “No Expense Spared” (even though he’d acquired the glasses for a price that surprised even him, from a supplier who’d nervously glanced over his shoulder throughout the transaction). Guests undoubtedly would be impressed. And besides, he’d instructed his bartenders to serve all of the evening’s libations in the stemmed glasses, not just the latest offering from Château Picard. The added fee for each “crystal souvenir” would cover the cost, not to mention the requisite overtime pay to his staff.

Beyond the bar’s force field, the walla of invitees grew louder by the minute. Ah, music to my ears, Quark thought, turning his attention to the lectern he’d placed near the entrance. Hmm, something’s missing. Or, rather, someone.

“Treir?” he called out. “Dammit, Treir, where did you—”

Then his words died in his throat as the Orion dabo girl—now manager of his bar on Bajor—sashayed toward him from the back hallway.

“Relax, Quark, I was just checking my hair,” she said. She walked past him slowly, allowing him to receive the full benefit of her musky perfume, which enveloped her like a powerful cloaking (or uncloaking) shield. “You want me to look good, right?”

“I do,” Quark said. “Although I still don’t see why you refused to put on the ensemble that the other girls are wearing.”

Treir put her hands on her shapely hips. “Let’s not have that conversation again, Quark. I’m here tonight—at your request—as your gatekeeper-slash-accountant, not as your bar wench. If that doesn’t work for you, I can still make the late shuttle back to Bajor.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Quark capitulated as he watched her take her place behind the lectern. He had to admit that the gown she’d chosen—a formfitting little number made of sapphire-toned Tholian silk—provided a stunning contrast to her jade-green skin. He doubted anyone would even consider arguing when she asked to see an RSVP payment confirmation number—or, in lieu of that, when she asked for the jacked-up entrance fee.

“Hey, Quark,” came a voice from the other side of the force field. “Are you going to open up? I’ve been waiting here forever.”

Chintz, he thought, recognizing the speaker. He’d had dealings with Chintz before. The man had the patience of a hungry sehlat.

“You can read, can’t you?” Quark responded. “At 1900 hours, like it says on the invitation.”

“Well, why don’t you send out one of the dabo girls with some drinks?” Chintz suggested. “It’s the least a considerate host might do.”

“Ha, that’s a good one,” Quark said dismissively. “I’ll keep you in mind if I ever need a comedian.” As he glanced down at his padd to see if he’d overlooked anything, he heard another voice.

“But I’m hungry now!” it wailed plaintively.

“Appetizers will be available at no charge once you get inside—” he began, then paused. He realized that he knew that voice too—and the speaker wasn’t supposed to be in this line.

Quark ran to the entrance and peered through the field. “Zek! What are you doing out there?”

The former Nagus looked befuddled. “I was hungry,” he whined, “so I came here.”

“Where’s Ishka?” Quark hissed.

“Here!” came a voice from deeper into the Plaza, followed by the clacka-clacka-clacka of his mother’s footsteps as she raced toward the bar. “He got out when I wasn’t looking.” Arriving at the field, she grabbed Zek’s arm and caught her breath.

“I told you to bring him to the employees’ entrance, along with Leeta and Bena,” Quark said, sotto voce.

“I knew, I know—but I wasn’t quite ready. I was enjoying a very refreshing facial, and the next thing I knew . . .” Ishka shrugged. “You’ve been very naughty, Zekkie,” she said, pulling her charge away from the entrance. “We’ll come back in a little while.”

“Can I have some slug butter on chitin crisps?” Zek asked, his squinty little eyes pleading up at her.

“We’ll see.”

As they walked away, Quark noticed the waiting guests turn to watch the pitiful sight of the former Nagus. That’s just great, he thought. That’s exactly what I don’t want them to remember about tonight—the doddering ex-Nagus and my mother in her orthopedic slippers.

Hoping to sound ambassadorial, Quark cleared his throat loudly. All eyes swiveled toward him. “You’re minutes away from a fantastic evening, folks!” he said, sounding his most upbeat. Several members of the crowd looked dubious, so he reluctantly played his ace. “And, uh”—he took a deep breath—“the first drink is . . . uh . . .” Quark paused, fighting to get the words out. “The first drink is . . . on the house.”

A gasp of surprise, followed by a very enthusiastic cheer, waved through the crowd. But it didn’t bring joy to Quark’s businessman heart.

It brought heartburn.

Hoping for one last moment of quiet before the fray began, Quark stepped into his office and almost ran into his nervous-looking brother. While he was happy to see that Rom was waiting where they had planned to meet, he was less happy to see a greasy smear across one sleeve of the ornate chartreuse-brocade on burgundy-velvet robe he wore.

“It’s done,” Rom said, clearly oblivious to his appearance. “Everything’s set.”

Quark shook his head in disgust. “Give me your robe.”

“What?”

“Your robe,” Quark repeated, pulling it off of him. He tossed the soiled garment into the wall replicator and addressed the device. “Recycle and restore.”

“Confirm parameters of restoration,” responded the flat voice of the replicator.

Quark glanced at Rom. “Do you really like this color?” he asked.

Rom looked offended. “I love that color. Leeta picked it out.”

Quark shrugged. “Recycle and restore. Duplicate exactly—except for the grease.”

The soiled robe vanished in a cluster of sparkles and, a second later, a fresh duplicate appeared. Quark tossed it to Rom. “So . . . you finally got the force field activated in the lounge? Took you long enough.”

The Nagus frowned at his brother as he pulled on the new robe. “I would have been done a lot sooner if you’d let me ask Chief O’Brien to help.”

“I told you—you can’t let any outsiders touch it.”

Rom looked incredulous. “Not even the chief? He’s the most trustworthy hew-mon I’ve ever met.”

“Not even the chief,” Quark insisted. “Look, you’re the one who was all nervous about taking it out of storage and bringing it here. You’ve got to keep your chain of accountability intact. If only one person is responsible for handling it, there’s only one link in the chain. Makes sense, right?”

Rom sighed. “Yeah. I guess.”

“So just relax—and concentrate on your speech. You do have a speech written, don’t you?”

Rom nodded and sat down wearily in Quark’s desk chair. “Leeta helped me update the one from last time. When we dedicated the embassy at the old station.”

Quark looked up, startled. “You didn’t write a new one?”

“I was going to, but Leeta—”

Quark rolled his eyes. “Let me guess: She convinced you that all you had to do was change the date and a few adjectives here and there.”

“Sort of. I’ve been busy. I didn’t have time to write a whole new speech, so it seemed like a good idea.”

“And never mind that the same important people are here and they probably remember the old speech. Never mind that it makes the whole occasion seem like someone’s hand-me-down. Never mind that—”

Rom abruptly got to his feet and walked over to Quark. “Now listen, Brother. You said it yourself—they came here to see the scroll, not to eat your hors d’oeuvres, and not to see me. The last time we did this, most of them spent so much time partying that they barely paid any attention to me.”

Quark stared at Rom for a minute, a touch surprised at the display of backbone, then cleared his throat and changed the subject. “I wouldn’t be so sure about the hors d’oeuvres. I’m sure they’ll be raving about these for weeks.”

There was a knock at the door, and before Quark could say, “Enter,” Leeta, Bena, Ishka, and Zek, all dressed in their Ferengi finest, entered the office. Leeta and Bena headed straight for Rom, who kissed his daughter on the forehead and his wife on the lips. Zek waddled over to Quark’s desk chair and immediately sat down. “Where’s the grub?” he addressed Quark. “Tube grub, that is. Ha ha ha ha.”

“Oh, Zekkie, you’re so silly,” Ishka said, stepping around behind him and patting his bald head lovingly.

Quark studied the newcomers for a moment, a frown on his face. “How did you get in just now?”

“Don’t worry, Quark, we used the servers’ entrance in the back, just like you said,” Ishka soothed.

“Right. But . . . did you ring the bell?” he asked. “I didn’t hear it, and believe me—it’s plenty loud. Who let you in?”

“Nobody let us in,” Leeta responded. “Bena ran to the door and it opened right up. We figured Treir saw us coming and triggered the door.”

Quark rubbed his chin. “Maybe,” he said as he pondered the possibility. “I’ll check with her before we open—”

There was another knock. This time it was Frool. “That woman Eisla Darvis is here with her crew. You said to let you know when she showed up.”

Quark’s eyes lit up. “Great timing! I’ll go talk to her.”

Leeta’s eyes widened. “Eisla Darvis? Ooooh, I love her FNS reports. Is she here to talk to Rom?”

“Rom?” Quark gave her a disdainful glance as he followed Frool out of the room. “Why would she want to talk to Rom?”

The door hissed shut behind him, leaving the remaining occupants in uncomfortable silence. Leeta put a comforting hand on her husband’s shoulder, but he smiled to let her know he wasn’t offended. “This is Quark’s party,” he said. “I’m just the Nagus.”

Zek looked up abruptly. “You? I thought I was the Nagus.”

Rom, Leeta, and Ishka sighed.

Chapter 8

Mudd’s Interstellar Travel Guide to the Alpha Quadrant (182nd Federation edition) recommends little about the backwater world of Enterol VI. “Humanoids,” the guide states, “will find the M-class planet’s air breathable.” That may be the guide’s strongest recommendation. It goes on to state that the planet has but two seasons: one arid (“stiflingly hot”), the other monsoonal (“distinctly dank”). Historic surface architecture is negligible, as the Enteroli (the primary indigenous species) pack their mud-walled domiciles into subterranean caverns. These structures are equipped with the latest technology, and furnishings are considered “modern and tasteful by most standards.” But flashy, they’re not.

The Enteroli—insectoids of varying shapes and hues—are “amiable and hospitable.” As the guide delicately points out, off-worlders often report that their appearance gives them (in Federation parlance) the “heebie-jeebies.” As for lodging, “bed and breakfast visitors would be advised to skip the breakfast.”

Such reviews (there are others) garner general dismay among local Commerce Commission officials, for they do little to engender tourism.

The one thing Enterol VI does have going for it—to which Mudd’s makes only passing reference—is the planet’s orbital refueling station, the only one in the sector. The station includes all the amenities travelers might require while awaiting service on their ships: liquid and sonic showers; nap rooms; a replimat; a gift shop that features, among other necessities, an assortment of fresh undergarments for two-legged, six-legged, and eight-legged customers; and a small but well-stocked saloon.

The owner of the saloon, a good-natured Enteroli whose given name required enough clicks, chits, and chirrups to stymie flabby humanoid tongues, encouraged customers to call him Fred.

By his species’ standards, Fred was considered quite handsome. His two-meter vertical stature was blessed with a shiny silver segmented carapace; his dark, compelling compound eyes, offset by the graceful antennae that curled just a bit at the tips, drew the eye of many a nymph. Those debonair good looks, however, were lost on non-Enteroli. A human couple from Copernicus City once informed Fred that he resembled a giant silverfish, which he inferred, given their expressions, was not a compliment. But Fred won their adoration with his killer martinis and images from home on the ultra-jumbo viewscreen that hung behind his bar. He generally set the viewscreen to receive transmissions of regional sporting tournaments, but occasionally switched to the Federation News Service for reports of Starfleet transports headed into the region. Starfleeters, he was aware, drank a lot of martinis.

The saloon was nearly empty at the moment, but Fred expected a Cardassian trawler later that day. A quick check of his inventory confirmed that he had an unopened crate of kanar in the back room. And while he didn’t carry many traditional Cardassian food stocks in his pantry, he counted a dozen dusty bottles of yamok sauce. Opening one, Fred inserted a slender claw into the bottle, withdrew a drop, and poked it into his mouthparts.

Umm. Tangy. And still fresh. Good. That should make whatever I serve them palatable, he thought.

Returning to the bar, he glanced at his lone customer. The fellow was snoring softly, his face pressed into the polished surface of the bar, his large head framed by a half circle of empty martini glasses.

The Enteroli studied the customer thoughtfully. Fred had no idea where he had come from, or where he might be headed, but he certainly was becoming a fixture around the place. Which was fine, because his jokes were quite amusing. And he paid latinum for everything.

Speaking of which—I suspect he’ll want another soon.

Fred pulled a clean shaker off the shelf with one of his right pincers and grabbed a few bottles with his two left. Deftly measuring the appropriate proportions from the appropriate containers, Fred vibrated the shaker rapidly.

The cheerful sloshing sound brought about the predictable effect. His customer opened one bloodshot eye and focused blearily on the shaker, then retrieved the closest empty martini glass and extended it toward Fred.

Fred filled the glass to the brim. “There you go. Just the way you like it.”

The big fellow sat up, blinking as he looked around the saloon, fixating finally on the viewscreen. He tilted his head to one side quizzically.

“FNS,” responded Fred. “I think they’re going to cover the entertainment news next.”

With his free hand, the customer signaled Fred to increase the volume. Fred obliged, and he joined him in watching the image up on the screen of a slender human woman with golden follicular outgrowths atop her head and proportionally oversize chest glands. She was standing in front of the entrance to a saloon that was many times the size of Fred’s. A three-dimensional chyron displaying her name popped out of the screen and hung in the air:

“EISLA DARVIS, FNS SPECIAL REPORTS,” it read.

“Just a short time from now,” the woman said, “eminent Ferengi from across the quadrant will gain admittance to this facility to celebrate the dedication of their new embassy on Space Station Deep Space 9.”

The camera transmitting the FNS feed refocused just over Eisla Darvis’s shoulder to reveal a crowd of large-eared individuals decked out in garish clothing, milling about in front of the saloon. To Fred, they appeared rather bored, although he knew he wasn’t the best interpreter of humanoid facial expressions. One of them spotted the camera and waved, no doubt hoping to extend his few seconds of fame.

The focus returned to Eisla Darvis’s face. “The guest of honor is Ferenginar’s current Grand Nagus Rom. I understand that the Grand Nagus has brought something very special with him, and I have a gentleman here who can tell us more about that.”

She turned, and the camera panned with her to focus on the face of the gentleman, who was grinning very broadly with a set of very sharp teeth. Another identifying chyron popped out of the screen. Unfortunately for the gentleman, it was so long that it covered half of his face:

QUARK, PROPRIETOR

QUARK’S PUBLIC HOUSE, CAFÉ,

GAMING EMPORIUM, HOLOSUITE ARCADE,

AND FERENGI EMBASSY.

Fred’s customer began to chuckle, a low rumbling sound from deep within his belly. Fred glanced again at the screen. Well, yes, the fellow was funny looking, with his huge ears and bulbous nose, but no funnier looking than the customer himself, with his teeny-weeny ears and wide, flat mouthparts. I never will understand two-legger humor, Fred thought. With a shrug, he turned his attention once again to the screen.

“Yes, Eisla,” the big-earred alien was saying. “I personally convinced the Nagus—did I mention that the Nagus is my brother?—I convinced him that the guests at this very special event deserved to see something that no one has seen in decades: the original scroll of the Rules of Acquisition, hand-lettered in liquid latinum by Gint himself!”

Fred’s customer choked on a swallow of his martini and began to cough. Loudly. The barkeep grabbed his control wand and raised the volume enough to compensate for the noise.

“The Sacred Scroll truly is spectacular!” the Ferengi was saying. “Well worth the modest fee that they agreed to pay in order to feast their eyeballs on it.”

“Well, Quark,” Eisla said with a very big smile, “that does sound very exciting. I think that our viewers would love to have a little sneak preview of the scroll, don’t you?”

The Ferengi stared at the female in shock. “You’re kidding, right?”

Eisla’s smile faltered briefly. “Uh . . . why, no, Quark. I’m not.”

“Eisla, my customers—guests, that is—are paying for an exclusive viewing. I can hardly betray their trust by showing it gratis to millions of viewers.”

Eisla looked perturbed. “Quark, you told me when I agreed to come all the way out here that you’d allow me to show the scroll in my broadcast.”

Quark’s smile tightened. “No, Eisla, I think if you search your memory you’ll find I said you’d get exclusive coverage of the event—not the scroll.”

The customer continued to cough until at last he managed to clear his windpipe. He spat the intrusive liquid onto the surface of the bar, and Fred quickly wiped up the spot with a napkin.

On the screen, the FNS reporter was fuming. “Well, I think that’s all we have time for. This is Eisla Darvis, FNS Special Reports, coming to you live from Deep Space 9.”

“Wait,” said Quark. “I didn’t get to mention the half-priced drinks!”

But the image from the space station abruptly disappeared, replaced by a chula tournament, already in progress, on the Wadi homeworld.

Fred studied the scoring information on the screen. “Hmmph. Second shap. Well, it doesn’t look like we missed anything important.” He glanced at his customer. “Are you all right?”

The customer didn’t seem to hear him. His big leathery face was puckered into an expression that Fred could only interpret as deep contemplation.

Fred tried again. “Can I get you another martini? Compliments of the house?” he added pleasantly.

That got the big fellow’s attention. He nodded and glanced up at the screen one more time. Then he sighed, planted a large meaty elbow on the bar, and dropped his massive chin into his hand as he waited for his drink.

Chapter 9

“Eisla—Eisla, wait!” Quark shouted.

The reporter ignored him, walking swiftly toward the Plaza, her FNS entourage at her classy heels.

Shmenge suddenly appeared at Quark’s elbow. “Boy, she looked mad,” the youth observed unnecessarily.

“Hack,” muttered Quark under his breath. Then he noticed Shmenge. “What are you doing out here?” he snapped.

“Just thought I should let you know that it’s 1900 hours, Boss.”

“So?”

“So . . . uh . . . can we open?”

Quark studied the crowd and did a quick head count. It looked like most of the invitees were there. There was no point in making them wait any longer out here—there was money to be made inside.

“Might as well,” he said.

Shmenge sprinted into the bar to deliver the message. A few seconds later, the force field dropped, and a flood of Ferengi-kind and a few other species flowed toward the opening, where Treir stood at her station.

“SINGLE FILE,” she announced in an authoritative “I’ll brook no crap” tone. “Be prepared to show your RSVP receipt. If you do not have an RSVP receipt, be prepared to tender tonight’s special admission fee.” She pointed to the large sign behind her station. Only two things were on the sign: a very large number and a list of the types of currency the bar accepted.

Sensing Treir’s sincerity—and her ability to kick the tulaberries out of every one of them—the flood became an obedient stream.

Quark watched the queue file in, a tiny smile on his face as he envisioned the guests as walking strips of latinum. Such a beautiful sight . . .

“Wow! Look at them all!”

The awe-filled voice came from behind his elbow: Shmenge.

“What are you doing out here now?” Quark hissed softly from the corner of his mouth. “Isn’t there enough to do inside?”

“I . . . I just wanted to watch them all come in. These are the movers and shakers of Ferengi society! All gathered in one place! It’s so . . . so . . . aspirational!”

“I think you mean inspirational,” responded Quark. “I’ll admit, it is a pretty impressive sight.”

“No,” Shmenge said. “I mean aspirational. I aspire to be just like them someday.”

“Fat chance!” chortled Quark.

“Especially that one. I mean, he’s a legend. He made being a liquidator seem so exciting!”

Shmenge was pointing to a Ferengi who’d just joined the other guests in line. Quark followed the trajectory of Shmenge’s digit to focus on the man’s face.

It was the face of the last person in the quadrant that he would have invited to the dedication.

In a flash, Quark was in front of the newcomer, blocking his path toward the entrance. “Hold it right there,” he snarled. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The Ferengi gave him a quizzical look. “I’m attempting to gain admission to your establishment, Quark. This event is open to the public, right? The paying public, that is.”

“Not your kind of public, Brunt,” Quark spat. “Not after all the trouble you’ve created for me over the years!”

Brunt smiled calmly. “It was nothing personal, Quark. I was just doing my job. The fact that I enjoyed doing it is neither here nor there.”

Quark glared. “Yes, well, you don’t have that job anymore, do you?”

Brunt shrugged. “It’s true that I am no longer employed by the Ferengi Commerce Authority, but I’ve come to think of my separation from the FCA as a kind of blessing in disguise. Why, just look at me, Quark.” He gestured toward his conspicuously chic attire, accented, as always, by the large bar of latinum that he wore around his neck on a golden chain. “Does it look as if I’ve fallen upon hard times?”

Quark continued to stare into Brunt’s eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of noticing his apparent affluence. “Oh, I’ve heard how you’re making your latinum these days, Mister Bounty Hunter. I’m surprised no one’s shot you in the back. Yet.”

Brunt chuckled. “You’re so behind the times, Quark—but I know this hinterland station doesn’t get much in the way of current financial news reports. That was ages ago. You’re looking at a Magnus-level Entrepreneur.”

Quark’s eyes briefly widened. “You’re a member of the Entrepreneurs’ Club?”

Brunt cheerfully pulled out his membership card and held it in front of Quark’s nose. “A Magnus-level member,” he emphasized. “I take it you know what an exclusive club it is, and how difficult it is to gain admission at all, let alone rise to its higher ranks.”

Quark’s head was spinning. What kind of universe was this when a reprehensible toad like Brunt could gain admission to the Ferengi Entrepreneurs’ Club? It was the most sought-after financial fellowship on Ferenginar.

“Now, if you’ll just accept my payment—”

Quark snapped out of his stupor. “I don’t care about any of that. I’m the proprietor of this bar and the Nagus-appointed ambassador to this embassy—and I don’t need to admit anyone whose presence, in my opinion, would have a toxic effect on the other guests.”

“Toxic?” Brunt burst out laughing. “You really are out of touch, aren’t you?” He glanced into the bar, where several Ferengi who’d already gained admission were waving at Brunt.

“Hurry up, Brunt—we’ve got a seat for you at our table!” shouted one.

Quark felt a wave of nausea as he realized that it was Nilva, the chairman of Slug-o-Cola.

That two-timing louse! After all I meant to him! He gave me a ring—well, he gave Lumba a ring, but a ring’s a ring. And now he’s all palsy-walsy with Brunt??

Quark considered tossing Nilva out of the bar, but he knew what a stupid financial move that would be. He couldn’t afford to alienate Nilva and his buddies. And now that Brunt was one of them . . .

“Well?” said Brunt, holding out the exorbitant, sign-specified entrance fee. “Do I get in?”

“Yeah,” said Quark. Ignoring the proffered handful of strips, he grabbed the chain around Brunt’s neck and gave it a yank. The gold-pressed bar slid into his hand. “Special Entrepreneur’s fee,” he said, returning the broken chain—sans bar—to its startled owner.

Then he turned and walked into the embassy, wordlessly handing the bar to Treir as he passed her.

Shmenge, horrified at his boss’s behavior, raced over to Brunt. “I’m so sorry about that, Liquidator Brunt,” he groveled.

“Former Liquidator Brunt,” Brunt corrected, staring down at the chain in his hand. “That was the first bar I ever confiscated,” he murmured. Suddenly he straightened and tossed the chain away. “Oh well. Plenty more where that came from.”

“Can I . . . can I show you to your table?” Shmenge asked. “I just wanted to let you know how much I’ve admired you.”

Brunt seemed to see Shmenge for the first time. “Have you, now? Well, I’m glad that Quark finally hired someone with common sense. Lead on.”

Chapter 10

“DABO!”

M’Pella’s rich, resonant voice—usually loud enough to catch the attention of passersby in the Plaza—was nearly lost in the din of clinking glasses, laughing patrons, and general hubbub.

Which boded well for the success of Quark’s latest attempt to become the wealthiest Ferengi in the quadrant. The place was filled to capacity.

“What d’ya think?” O’Brien asked Ro as they stood together at the bar.

Ro smiled. “I don’t know what to think. You guys have a lot more experience than I do witnessing these get-rich-quick schemes of his. People are buying drinks like crazy. They’re having a good time. What do you think, Odo?”

The Changeling, “dressed”—if one could put it that way—in a loose-fitting civilian Bajoran-style tunic and pants, shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what I think. It doesn’t matter what any of us think. Quark’s schemes always end up the same way. He plans everything to the last detail, and things start out well. Really well. Then—boom.”

O’Brien chuckled, but Ro, bemused, stared at Odo. “Boom?” she said.

“Boom,” repeated Odo. “He forgets something.”

“Or he gets overconfident, pushes something or someone a little too hard,” inserted O’Brien.

“Or he simply gets careless, and suddenly one of the main supports holding the whole thing up gives way, and he hits bottom,” concluded Odo. “And there go all his profits.”

“Well, that’s kind of sad,” commented Ro. “But why does that always happen?”

“Because he’s Quark,” said O’Brien distractedly. Looking around the room, he spotted his wife in the vicinity of the platters of food. “Excuse me—I’m going to try some of those free appetizers.”

Odo studied Ro’s suddenly pensive expression. “If it makes you feel any better,” he offered, “he usually winds up in the same place he started.”

“That’s kind of sad too,” Ro said with a sigh.

As the tower of souvenir glasses got lower and lower, Quark’s smile got bigger and bigger. Servers were running willy-nilly across the room, carrying drink orders to thirsty customers as fast as Hetik and Treir, positioned behind the bar, could pour them. The trays of special hors d’oeuvres had been emptied three times, and the replicators were operating at full capacity. His family members were behaving themselves—so far, at any rate—even Zek, who was seated at a large table between Bena and Kirayoshi O’Brien, making balloon animals from some of the party decorations.

Everything was going GREAT! So what if Brunt was here, hanging out with all of those Entrepreneurs? Before the night was over, they’d be begging Quark to join their stuffy little club!

One of the servers sprinted past Quark, carrying a huge tray full of cocktails. “Hey, hold up there!” Quark shouted, and the server froze in his tracks, centripetal force pushing the brimming glasses perilously close to the edge of the tray.

“What have you got there?” Quark asked, recognizing the server as Issa, a new hire.

Issa gulped nervously. “Stardrifters and Stardusters, sir,” he said, allowing Quark to inspect the contents.

Quark retrieved one of each and looked at them closely, then frowned. “The ’Dusters are fine,” he said. “But the ’Drifters weren’t blended correctly. See the color?”

Issa stared cluelessly at the green drink. “It looks tasty,” he offered.

“Shows what you know. Take them back and tell Hetik to make them from the bottle behind the counter. Treir will show him.”

Issa nodded, but he waited for Quark to replace the two drinks he was holding. And waited. Finally, Quark said, “What are you waiting for? Move!” And Issa ran back to the bar.

Quark studied the Stardrifter again, then shrugged and gulped it down. It actually was pretty tasty, even if it wasn’t the right shade of green. But Quark took pride in his establishment’s mixological reputation. If I’m charging them for the best, I might as well serve them the best, he thought. Tonight, anyway.

He was about to sample the Starduster when someone jostled his elbow. The slippery liquid splashed over his fingers and fell on his shoe.

“Hey, Quark,” the offending patron shouted into his ear. “I’ve been looking for that scroll you promised. Where is it?”

Quark turned to look at the man. He recognized him at once: Flam, a low-level functionary with the Bureau of Audit. Quark had been forced to deal with him after the old space station was destroyed. Flam had flagged Quark’s account of lost inventory and asked if he’d even bothered to take a shuttle through the field of debris after the explosion, searching for salvageable items.

In turn, Quark had questioned how long Flam’s family had been in the rubbish collection business, since that was obviously an area he knew so well.

Their relationship had gone downhill after that. As he dried his hand on a bar towel, Quark tried to remember if he’d put the man’s name on the guest list and, if so, what he could possibly have been thinking.

Nevertheless, judging by the state of Flam’s sobriety—or lack thereof—Quark realized that he was a pretty good customer in any event.

“Go get yourself another drink, Flam,” he said, “and I’ll move things along.”

“Compliments of the housh?” Flam slurred.

“Compliments of Brunt,” Quark responded. “Tell them to put it on his tab.”

As Flam happily meandered over to the bar, Quark realized that he was right about one thing: It was time to get the show started. There was an embassy to dedicate, a scroll to display, and additional profit to be made.

I should get a medal for this, he thought. Displaying the Sacred Scroll in a mere saloon would have been a cheap stunt. But displaying it in an actual embassy that just happened to house a saloon—that was positively patriotic! The very definition of truth, justice, and the Ferengi way!

But first things first. Let’s get this sucker dedicated. Looking around the crowded room, he finally spotted Grand Nagus Rom attempting to blend into a wall as a group of rather stern-looking businessmen closed in on him.

“Gentlemen,” Quark said, stepping in front of his brother. “The Nagus has official duties to attend to.”

Taking Rom by the arm, he walked him over to the platform that he’d carefully positioned out of the way of the gaming tables. “Get up there and knock ’em dead,” Quark said, giving his brother a pat on the back—and a little push. “You’re on.”

Grand Nagus Rom stood on the tiny stage, nearly frozen in fear as he looked over the crowd. Most of them are frowning at me, he thought. He glanced toward Quark, who was gesturing for him to begin, impatient to get this disruption of the party over so he could start selling drinks again. Then Rom looked at Leeta. She was smiling. Her dark eyes were filled with pride. Leeta had complete faith in him, and hers was the only opinion he really cared about.

Taking a deep breath, he began: “The rapid expansion of space exploration—”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. They recognize it already, Rom thought, and he looked again toward Quark. The expression on his brother’s face said “I told you so.” He wanted to run, but then he thought again of Leeta, and of Bena, who was standing on her chair so she could see him. He thought of the fact that as Nagus he could pretty much do whatever he wanted—and what he wanted right now was to get through his speech, and then to get off the platform.

“The rapid expansion of space exploration,” he started again, “has brought about expanded possibility for business—business of the political sort and business of the, um . . . business sort.”

Why didn’t I remember to fix that sloppy phrase? he berated himself.

“The outcry for trade in goods and services is universal. Literally. It calls out from across the Alpha Quadrant, the Gamma Quadrant, from initial Starfleet voyages into the Delta Quadrant. And it is our responsibility, as members of the Ferengi Chamber of Opportunity, to heed that outcry.”

A smattering of applause interrupted his words—perhaps, Rom thought, from those who hadn’t been present the first time he’d read this speech. But as little as it was, it gave him the courage to go on.

“It has been said,” he continued, “that our response to this universal deficiency fringes on ‘exploitation,’ as though that is a bad thing.” Rom paused as a small chorus of affirmation rose and subsided among his listeners. “But we do not exploit those in need. Rather, we seek out their needs and fulfill their desires through Ferengi Good Will. Yes, it is Good Will that we offer. Good Will, the most noble of our endeavors. Good Will, with which we reach into the hearts, into the minds, and into the political and financial institutions of the emerging marketplace. Is it any wonder that so much of that universal outcry is directed toward Ferenginar?”

A spontaneous rush of applause—much larger than before—filled the room. Ferengi businessmen whistled and stomped their feet in agreement. Rom realized that he actually had them right where he—or, more accurately, Quark—wanted them. And his brother was grinning from lobe to lobe!

“And so,” the Nagus continued, “the Ferengi Chamber of Opportunity dedicates this room, this Embassy of Good Will, as a gathering place for all who wish to contribute to the Ferengi Spirit.” Inspired by his own words, Rom raised his hands in the air. “I hereby proclaim this new and improved Ferengi Embassy at Bajor”—a hush filled the room as he paused: two, three, four—“OPEN.”

The noise in the room rose to a cacophony as the movers and shakers of Ferengi society got to their feet and cheered. Even Brunt stood and applauded (although his smile seemed rather forced).

Standing near the rapidly melting statue of Gint, Chief O’Brien looked at his wife and mouthed, “I need a drink.” And they headed back to the bar.

Chapter 11

Quark stepped into the refurbished employees’ lounge. He stared at the covered pedestal that took up a large portion of the tiny room. Inside was Gint’s scroll. All he had to do was show it. There was nothing complicated about the presentation—nothing, really, that required a humanoid to be in attendance. Just a few buttons to push. It was so simple that a Ferengi swamp lemur could operate it, so why not assign the task to Frool? But Rom had made it clear that someone trustworthy had to remain in the room with the precious artifact while outsiders were present. And since Rom would be occupied in the main room, mingling with the guests, Quark was the obvious choice.

So, fine. He’d stay here while Rom fulfilled his nagal responsibilities. Tonight did offer him the best opportunity to urge the gathered VIFs to support his position on limiting the blood-flea market. As much as everyone liked a hearty bowl of flaked blood fleas, the current marketplace was overrun with them—literally. Leeta and Bena had come home from several shopping trips covered with itchy red bites from a prolific new strain of “free range” blood fleas.

Quark took his position next to the pedestal. Here we go, he said to himself, and he flipped a switch on the control panel that Rom had installed. The switch activated a green light just outside, signaling Frool to send in the first group.

Ten paying customers filed into the tiny room and looked around curiously. Quark was surprised to see that Chief O’Brien and his attractive wife, Keiko, were among their number. I guess he actually meant it when he told me he’d love to see the scroll, thought Quark. That’s kind of touching. Sappy, but touching.

There was barely room for the ten of them (plus Quark), and as they tried to fit, they had to adjust their elbows to keep from poking their neighbors. I probably should have set this up in one of the larger pantries, Quark thought. Then he reminded himself of the 142nd Rule: There’s no profit in second-guessing.

When the group appeared to be somewhat situated, Quark lowered the lights and activated a recording of patriotic music (the ever-popular “Anthem of Unfettered Profit” served this purpose nicely—and it was in the public domain). Then the music faded, and a recitation began:

“It was over ten thousand years ago, in the early era of Ferengi prosperity, that Grand Nagus Gint, the very first Grand Nagus, took it upon himself to create the Rules of Acquisition: the precious guiding principles that form the basis of Ferengi business philosophy . . .”

“. . . hand-lettered in dried liquid latinum . . .” it droned on.

“. . . locked away from public view for generations . . .” and on.

Quark noticed an elderly gentleman with large droopy ears—named Cack, if Quark remembered correctly—sagging a bit on his cane. Maybe I should shorten the presentation. Nah. Let them get their money’s worth.

“And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for, the moment that you’ve paid for!”

Quark pushed another button. The top of the pedestal slid away. An inner compartment rose with a hum, revealing the most beautiful illuminated scroll that anyone in the room had ever seen. Instantly, the viewers forgot their discomfort, and even their neighbors’ elbows, as they jostled to see the document before them.

They oooohed and ahhhhhhed, and some of them wiped tears from their eyes. Then a new piece of music arose: the familiar strains of “Behold the Luster!,” the fanfare originally written for the opening of the remodeled Tower of Commerce five decades earlier. Unfortunately, because its composer was still alive, Quark had to pay for the theme’s use. He’d thought about using something else, but he knew that nothing would tug at heartstrings (not to mention purse strings) like “Behold the Luster!”

As one, the audience leaned forward to see the artifact. The partially unfurled parchment featured ancient Ferengi hieroglyphs along with Gint’s flowing latinum scrawl. Quark had chosen to unroll the scroll to display his favorite Rule, the 19th: “Satisfaction is not guaranteed.”

“I didn’t imagine it would be so beautiful,” Keiko whispered to her husband. “I mean, given the source . . .” Her voice trailed off as O’Brien put his finger to his lips.

“Careful, love,” he said softly. “Big ears.”

But if anyone had heard her, this apparently wasn’t a moment for responding to petty insults. Everyone seemed quite moved by the display. In fact, elderly Cack had risen to his full stature and was tottering forward to get a better look. “I want to touch it,” he murmured—just loud enough that Quark heard.

“No, don’t,” he warned. “There’s a f—”

Too late. The old Ferengi reached out to stroke the scroll with his gnarled fingers and connected with the force field that surrounded the pedestal. For a brief instant, a bluish flash of energy spread through his body, and his large droopy ears stood higher than they had for years.

Then he was thrown backward—thankfully, into O’Brien’s arms. The chief carefully set the old gent back on his feet. “You all right?” he asked.

Cack was staring upward, presumably at the heavens. “I . . . I think I saw Gint. He was smiling at me.”

With that, the scroll descended into the pedestal, and the top slid neatly into place. The prerecorded voice blared: “This concludes our presentation. Souvenirs of your visit are available in the embassy. Please exit the room NOW.”

“Well, at least he said ‘please,’ ” O’Brien observed as he and Keiko watched the group of Ferengi shuffle out of the room. When he was sure they were out of earshot, he turned to Quark and said, “I want a quick word.”

“I don’t have time for a quick word,” the barkeep responded. “I’ve got to get the next group in. My financial future—”

“Will be just fine, Quark,” said O’Brien. “I just wanted to tell you that you did a nice job with this. Keiko and I are very impressed.”

Quark glanced at Keiko, who nodded and smiled reassuringly. He wasn’t quite sure how to respond. He’d been expecting a lecture and was truly taken off guard by the compliment. “Um . . . thanks,” he said at last. “Of course, it was Rom who made it possible. Even though it was my idea.”

“One other thing,” O’Brien said.

“I knew it,” Quark muttered under his breath.

“You need to add a warning to that recording of yours about that force field. Or at least put a sign up. Most people will be smart enough to expect it, but a few . . .” He gestured toward the group that had left.

“Okay,” Quark said, clearly aware of time passing. “Is that it?”

O’Brien could take a hint. “Yeah,” he said. “Think it’s time for some more of those delicious hors d’oeuvres.” He winked at Keiko.

“Oh . . . yes,” she said. “They’re quite . . . unique.” Her smile seemed a little strained, but Quark didn’t care. The less they ate, the more there’d be for the paying guests.

Quark maneuvered the couple to the door and nudged them into the hallway. “Well, don’t forget to tell your friends,” he said, closing the door behind them.

Then he went back to his station next to the pedestal and signaled Frool to send in the next group.

Chapter 12

By 2100 hours, the party had grown so loud that Ro almost missed Blackmer’s check-in call.

“Activity has slowed to normal on the docking ring, Captain,” he reported. “From the noise I’m hearing on your end, I’d guess that it’s the opposite at Quark’s.”

“You’ve got that right, Commander,” Ro responded. “I’ve never seen this place so crowded. It looks like Quark’s party is a success.”

“Good for him,” Blackmer said, sounding a bit disingenuous. “Well, enjoy yourself. If you need me, I’ll be in the Hub.”

“I won’t be here much longer, Jeff,” Ro said. “Can I bring you some appetizers?”

“Not from what I’ve heard about them.”

Ro chuckled and signed off.

Wandering through the crowd, nodding at the guests she recognized, Ro found it hard to tune out the clamor of conversations swelling around her.

“. . . not justifiable for random portfolios. You’re either dedicated to mixed beetles or you’re not. There’s no two ways about it.”

“. . . significant premiums with increasing tendencies in . . .”

“. . . variable index futures, offset by their collective restructuring after the meteor storm last year.”

“. . . honestly, it’s always a cyclical market with toad bladders.”

“. . . and finances don’t mix. Never have, never will.”

“Kinda makes you glad you’re not in ‘business,’ doesn’t it, Captain?”

Chief O’Brien’s lilting voice in the midst of all that investment babble was like a breath of fresh air. She turned to see him standing with his wife, Keiko, and smiled. She’d known them both since she served aboard the Enterprise, back in the days when she’d had the social skills of a razorcat.

Ro laughed. “I would have been a complete failure in the private sector.”

“Well, perhaps this particular private sector,” Keiko said charitably. “Not all businesses, nor businesspeople, are as, um, intense as the Ferengi.”

“Intense is a good word for it,” Ro said, “although I think cutthroat would probably be more accurate! I suspect the odds of survival are a lot better in Starfleet.”

“Well, I know I definitely prefer our rule book to theirs,” said O’Brien with a smile.

“Speaking of that, have you seen the scroll yet?” Keiko asked.

“No,” Ro answered. “I’m not sure that I’d be the most appreciative audience for it. I know most of the rules already, and I don’t think looking at the original version would make me like them any better!”

“You really should look at it,” Keiko pressed. “The calligraphy is gorgeous. It’s not what the words say, it’s the beauty of the actual lettering on the scroll.”

“It’s definitely worth a gander,” O’Brien added.

“High praise,” said Ro. “Well, maybe I’ll take a peek.” They exchanged smiles, and she again meandered through the crowd, pausing when she spotted the line leading to the former employees’ lounge.

Oh, why not, she decided, walking toward the front of the line. There, she found one of Quark’s employees—Fool? No, Frool—rather futilely attempting to maintain a queue of inebriated businessmen.

“Stay in line,” he was shouting at the unruly men. “And stop pushing. It won’t get you in any faster.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” growled one of them. “Do you know who I am?”

“Are you in need of some assistance here?” Ro asked Frool, attempting to look stern. “I can bring in station security.”

The crowd quieted down as she glared at them, and the line straightened imperceptibly. A couple of men looked annoyed, probably because a female had displayed the audacity to tell them what to do.

“No, please, Captain—we don’t need any security here,” Frool said nervously. “These gentlemen just don’t understand that it’s a very tiny room and we can’t let in more than ten at a time. If they’d just be patient—”

Suddenly a small green light activated next to his station.

“Okay,” he shouted. “The next ten. And I mean TEN!” He opened the door, and as a group filed in, Ro slipped in among them, almost losing her balance as they pushed forward.

Hmmm. Maybe he’s right—eleven is too many. Struggling to free herself from between two overly stout Ferengi, she suddenly popped out, like a cork from a wine bottle—and bumped into Quark, standing at his post in a corner.

“Well, hello, Captain,” he said with a smile. “What a pleasant surprise! It’s nice of you to stop by. You’re going to enjoy this.” Lowering the lights, he reached down to push a button, and the air—what little there was of it in the tiny room—suddenly filled with music. Strange music that sounded almost “crunchy” to Ro’s Bajoran ears, with occasionally shifting tones that may have been a melody, or possibly a mistake. And then she heard a voice—Quark’s, Ro assumed, digitally manipulated to sound ancient and ethereal. It began a recitation:

“It was over ten thousand years ago . . .”

Still working behind the bar, Hetik fervently wished that he was back at the dabo table. He was mixing yet another Starduster when he noticed that the trays on the closest serving table were nearly empty. Again. Looking around for a spare pair of hands, he spotted the new server and called to him.

“Hey, Issa!” he called out, pointing to the table. “We need food at station seven! Replicate thirty-five more parthas soufflés. And thirty-five Gramilian sand pea biscuits. And another fifty portions of pulverized snail steak pâté. And step on it!”

Issa hustled over to the nearest replicator and stared at it, a concerned look on his face. He’d never operated a big commercial machine like this. It was imposing, intimidating even. The one in his moogie’s kitchen was tiny; it hung under a cabinet.

He started giving the order. “Computer,” he said, “I need thirty-five parthas soufflés, and thirty-five Gramilian sand pea biscuits, and, uh, fifty pulverized snail steak pâté plates. And I need all of them right away!”

The replicator made some random clicking sounds, and then . . . absolutely nothing happened. Issa decided to let it know he was still there. “Computer?” he said.

The automated voice stated: “Attempting to comply.”

Another second passed. Nothing.

“Issa!” hollered Hetik. “Where’s that food?”

“Coming, coming!” he hollered back.

But nothing was happening.

Issa did what he often did at home, giving the machine a smack. “Come on, stupid!” he growled.

The replicator made a series of curious beeps. Then it said, “Attempting to comply. Attempting to . . . to . . . to . . . com . . . com . . . com . . .”

Issa heard a faint rumble as the machine’s lights began to blink rapidly. Oh, good. It’s working . . .

And then a glutinous mixture of soggy biscuits, pâté, and soufflé gushed out of the pickup window, covering his feet with the stinky mess. A loud electronic squeal issued from the replicator’s control board, followed by a blinding flash. And suddenly—the lights throughout the embassy went dark.

A partygoer cried out in fear: “It’s a raid!” That triggered several additional shouts. “What kinda raid?” “It’s the FCA!” “It’s the—” And then the lights flashed on again. Then off again. On again. And then they stayed on. The party guests looked around nervously, wondering what had just happened.

Behind the bar, Hetik had only to look at Issa’s feet to know.

Inside the “scroll room,” as Quark had come to think of it, Quark counted ten paying patrons—plus Ro, who, he suspected, hadn’t paid. Not that he minded her presence. I’ll take the fee out of Frool’s pay and tell him it’s for bad counting.

As the anticipated oooohing and ahhhhhing kicked in, Quark happily noted that Ro seemed as impressed with the scroll as the Ferengi in the room. Well, all except for that Ferengi, he thought, grinding his teeth.

There was Brunt, standing in the far corner, obviously not the least bit impressed, his lips twisted with disdain. There’s that toxic effect of his, Quark noted. He decided to ask Brunt to leave, but he hadn’t taken a step when the room suddenly plunged into darkness.

Quark heard several gasps, then a slap, a loud “OWW!” and Ro’s voice snarling “Back off!”

And just as suddenly, the lights flashed back on, strobed a bit, and settled back to normal. Quark looked around the room. Four of the Ferengi businessmen were cowering, curled up on the floor; one was trying to get out the door; three were holding on to each other; another—the one who’d been standing closest to Ro—was rubbing the side of his face; and Ro was swatting her communicator badge. “Commander Blackmer, report!” she said. As for Brunt . . .

Brunt had pushed forward and was standing next to the pedestal, staring wide-eyed at the scroll—Gint’s magnificent antique scroll—as it shimmered, faded, and flickered. The only thing that remained constant in its appearance was an electronic outline.

Quark’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

A low muttering spread around the room. “It’s not real,” said the stout Ferengi to Ro’s right. “Is it . . . a hologram?” asked the even stouter Ferengi to his right. “A hologram?” echoed another businessman. “We paid to see a hologram?”

“Wait! No, it can’t be a hologram,” Quark shouted. “It’s real. My brother brought it from—”

The muttering escalated to an angry rumble. But Brunt, interestingly, no longer looked angry. He looked delighted. “It’s a fake,” he shouted. “A fake!” He pointed a finger at the shimmering image on the pedestal and roared, “FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!” Then his eyes settled on Quark. Raising his finger to point directly at his old nemesis, he roared again: “FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!”

Chapter 13

“How could this have happened?” Quark said. “It’s not possible! It’s a mistake. Or maybe a hallucination. A mass hallucination. Or maybe I’m asleep. Maybe I’m still in bed—”

“Quark, would you please settle down?” Ro said to him.

She had never seen the ever-confident Ferengi so rattled. His agitated behavior was drawing the attention of the guests—which was the last thing Quark would have wanted, had he been in his right mind.

Of course, Brunt was doing an even better job of attracting their attention. “I told you,” he was saying to his cronies. “I told you not to trust him. Once a miscreant, always a miscreant.”

“Everything was so prepared,” Quark rattled on. “I supervised every detail. This can’t be happening. It’s got to be a mistake.”

Ro put her hands on Quark’s shoulders and stared into his eyes. “Quark, listen to me,” she said. “Chief O’Brien is in there now, getting to the bottom of things. You’re not doing anyone any good by panicking. Look at your brother—he’s not panicking.”

Indeed. Rom, bracketed by his loved ones—Leeta, whispering reassurances into his ear, and Bena, hugging him tightly around the waist—appeared calm. Or, perhaps more accurately, catatonic.

“Of course he’s not panicking,” Quark said. “What has he got to lose?”

Ro exhaled in frustration. She turned to Odo, who was leaning against the bar, observing the scene with a great deal of interest.

“Can you talk some sense into him?” she asked.

“What’s the point?” responded the Changeling. “It’s just as I explained earlier.” He held out his hands, fingers splayed as though he were tossing something into the air. “Boom.”

Ro frowned. “I thought you were his friend.”

“What gave you that impression?” Odo responded, his expression unreadable.

Then all conversation in the room ceased as O’Brien, accompanied by Blackmer, emerged from the hallway. Aware that all eyes were upon him, O’Brien addressed Ro softly. “Do you want to discuss this somewhere more private, Captain?”

“I think—”

But she was interrupted by a shout from the crowd. Brunt again. Of course.

“No Starfleet cover-ups!” he cried out. “The citizens of Ferenginar deserve to know the truth about this!”

Whatever O’Brien had to tell her would quickly filter through to the guests anyway, so Ro made a quick decision. “Tell me what you found, Chief.”

O’Brien sighed and lifted his right hand to display a small, inconspicuous piece of equipment. “I deactivated the force field so I could examine the pedestal closely. And . . .” He paused, giving Quark a regretful glance. “And I’m afraid that this holoprojector was the only thing in it.”

He placed the device on top of the bar and pressed a button on its side. And there it was, an image of the portion of scroll that everyone had seen. “Sorry, Quark,” O’Brien said.

The onlookers gasped. Conversations sprang up throughout the room—most of them ugly, and all of them directed at Quark.

Standing next to O’Brien, Blackmer realized that he was witnessing a potentially volatile situation. “All right, calm down, folks,” he said. “We’re nowhere near figuring out just what transpired here.”

“We know what transpired!” shouted Brunt. “Quark tried to fleece us all—pretending that he had the Sacred Scroll!”

“I did not!” Quark responded. “Why would I do something like that? Why would I make people pay to see a hologram of a holy relic?”

Odo and O’Brien exchanged glances.

Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, O’Brien said nothing.

But Odo said, “I can think of two hundred and eighty-five reasons.”

“But it wasn’t a hologram!” insisted Quark.

O’Brien gestured at the photonic image on the bar. “Quark, that is a hologram.”

“I know that’s a hologram. But it’s not what Rom took from the Vaults of Opulence.” He slowly turned to look at Rom. “It’s not, is it? I mean, I asked you to bring the scroll, but I never actually saw it until you had it all set up in the lounge.”

Now all eyes turned to settle on Rom.

“Grand Nagus?” inquired Blackmer.

Before Rom could stutter a word, Leeta, infuriated at the suggestion that her husband had committed chicanery, leaped to his defense. “How dare you! He would never do that! He brought the real thing! Tell them, Rom.”

Stammering slightly, Rom told them. “I . . . I went down to the Vaults and got the scroll. I put it in a little box—a nice little box,” he assured the crowd. “And then I brought it on the shuttle, and when I got here, I carried it into the display area and hooked up the force field. Up until then, I never let it out of my sight. I even took it with me into the ’fresher—”

The crowd gasped again. “You took our most sacred relic into the ’fresher?” Brunt repeated in disgust.

“Of course he did,” Leeta confirmed proudly. “Because he takes his nagal responsibilities seriously. And sometimes he’s in there a long time,” she added.

Suddenly, the subject at hand pierced the usual cloud over Zek’s brain. Realizing what was being discussed, he got to his feet and stared at Rom in horror. “You took the Sacred Scroll out of storage? There are rules against removing the Rules from Ferenginar!”

“Not for the Nagus,” said Quark. “It clearly states in Bylaw Seventeen of the Nagal Immunity Clause that he can—”

“Bylaw, schmylaw!” said Zek. “Fat lot of good that will do you when the Order of Scrutinizers is at your door.” He pointed a finger at Rom. “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes!”

Then a puzzled look came over his features and he turned to Ishka for clarification. “I’m not, am I? In his shoes? He’s the Nagus, right?”

Ishka took his hand and nodded. “He’s the Nagus.”

“That’s what I thought,” Zek said, clearly relieved. “You’re in troooou-ble,” he said, stretching out the first syllable as he smiled pleasantly at Rom.

“Arrest him!” Brunt said to Blackmer. “And Quark too!”

“He can’t,” said Ro. “The embassy has been dedicated. This is now Ferenginar territory. As far as Starfleet and the Federation are concerned, neither of them has committed a crime.”

“No, but a crime has been committed,” Quark said. “Against the embassy. We’ve been robbed. And somebody here is the robber!” He jumped to his feet. “Nobody move!” he shouted. “Nobody leaves until we find the culprit!”

He ran behind the bar, punched the button that activated the force field, and glowered at the startled crowd.

Chapter 14

The VIFs surged, en masse, toward the entrance, jostling and shouting, pushing one another against the low-level force field, which fzzzed as it fritzed and flashed in response.

Oh, the Ferengity, thought Odo, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. From his vantage point, perched on a stool at the bar, the whole scene was all too predictable, yet tremendously entertaining.

The former head of station security watched as the current head of security forced his way into the fray and retrieved the stunned Ferengi as they bounced off the field. Good work, Commander, Odo thought. You’ve obviously trained for this kind of thing. Blackmer moved about, his stern gaze directing the disoriented businessmen, first right, then left—bullying them back until they retreated into a rough, tight circle in the center of the room. That’s exactly how I would have done it, Odo reflected. It’s like herding dumb animals around in a pen.

With the potential for injury among the guests over, Odo turned his attention to an even more interesting encounter only a few feet away, behind the bar.

“Turn off the force field, Quark!” Ro was shouting. “You can’t hold these people prisoner until somebody confesses! You’ve got to let them out into the Plaza.”

Bajoran women—tough as nails. Odo let the thought linger, until it rested on an earlier time, in an earlier space station. He might have ruminated on the memory, but . . .

“But they’ll get away!” Quark shrieked from right across the bar. The “ambassador” was pacing now, refusing to listen to reason, unable—or unwilling—to get hold of his emotions.

Why doesn’t she just reach out and slap him? Odo thought. That would get his attention.

Ro, to her credit, stepped up to Quark and shook him. “Blackmer’s already locked down the docking ring,” she told him. “No vessel will be allowed to leave the station in the foreseeable future—not until I give Blackmer the go-ahead. I’m on your side here, Quark. Trust me.”

What Odo knew—and what Quark wouldn’t process in his current state of mind—was that, as Starfleet defined it, “the foreseeable future” was a very short window. Without a pressing reason, the captain would be required to give that go-ahead in twenty-six hours, whether they’d found a perpetrator or not.

Quark looked at Ro. His shoulders sagged, and the rage faded from his face. Stepping around her, he sulked his way to the control panel and pressed the button. The force field dropped with a hiss. His esteemed guests—some of them relieved, some still frantic, some turning to offer him a less than polite parting gesture—streamed out and into the Plaza.

Quark glared at the disappearing assemblage. “Don’t leave town!” he shouted after them.

Captain Ro walked across the room to join Blackmer. But Quark wasn’t ready to let them leave. “Wait!” he shouted. “You didn’t fill me in on how you’ll conduct the investigation! When are you going to begin questioning the guests?”

Ro and Blackmer exchanged looks. “Go on to the Hub, Commander,” she told him. “I’ll join you in a minute.” Blackmer, looking distinctly relieved, took his leave.

“I think Blackmer should grill Brunt right away,” Quark went on as he hustled toward Ro. “He’s been out to get me for years.”

“Quark,” she began carefully, “you remember what I said a few minutes ago about your bar no longer being Starfleet territory? This theft—if that’s what it is—is a crime against Ferenginar. It can’t be handled like a Starfleet investigation. I’ll do what I can to help you, but Blackmer has a lot on his plate right now. I can’t spare him to assist you.”

Quark stood speechless for a few seconds. Then he said, “But someone . . . someone has to investigate this. It may not seem like a big deal to you, but it’ll be the crime of the century on Ferenginar, once the public finds out about it. I can’t solve this alone.”

He looks utterly pitiful, Odo observed, still watching from his stool. Don’t let him manipulate you, Ro. This isn’t your concern.

“Send for a Ferengi investigator, maybe someone from the FCA,” the captain suggested. The look of horror that overtook Quark’s face impelled her to amend that suggestion. “Or maybe a civilian investigator,” she said. Her tone was oh so innocent—but Odo didn’t miss the meaningful glance that she cast in his direction! Nor did Quark.

I should have gone when I had the chance, he suddenly realized.

And then Quark was standing in front of him, spewing out his dire need for Odo’s assistance.

The Changeling shook his head vehemently. “No,” he said in no uncertain terms.

“What do you mean, ‘No’?” Quark repeated in disbelief.

“I mean, NO. Wasn’t that what it sounded like?”

“But how can you— Why wouldn’t you?” Quark said, his voice hitting that annoying decibel level that Odo had heard so many times in the past. “You’re an investigator! So investigate!”

“I thought I made myself clear the first time. Allow me to reiterate: NO!”

Quark ruffled at the rejection. “It’s not like you have anything else to do right now anyway!” he snapped. “You’re just sitting around the station . . . taking up space! Make yourself useful!”

Odo was considering making himself useful by shutting Quark up permanently when Ro joined the two of them. “Odo, this is a great idea!” she said with a smile. “You know the station so well—”

“Not this station,” harrumphed Odo.

“It’s still a space station,” Ro retorted. “You’ve been here long enough to figure that out. I’m sure you’ve even done some exploring on your own.”

Odo glanced up sharply at that comment. Well, of course he had. What else did he have to do? He’d wormed his way through nearly every square inch of it. But he hadn’t thought that he’d been obvious about it.

“I doubt that your Mister Blackmer would be thrilled about me doing his job,” Odo said gruffly.

“But that’s just it—it’s not his job. He’ll be thrilled that someone he respects is taking charge.”

Odo uttered a loud “Hmmmph,” and Quark, the weasel, began to smile. Truthfully, Odo knew that he would enjoy the responsibility of heading an investigation. Probably as much as he enjoyed making Quark squirm about it for as long as he could.

“So you’ll do it,” said Quark.

Ignoring Quark, he addressed Ro: “I’ll need permission to talk to anyone on the station, go anywhere on the station, and have clearance to access all relevant computer records.”

“Of course,” she said. “You can start by reviewing the station’s security footage of all likely areas where the theft could have taken place. I’ll fill in Blackmer and let him know you’ll be coming by the Hub. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.” She reached over and clasped his forearm. “Thanks, Odo.”

Odo nodded once, succinctly.

As soon as she was gone, Quark was all over him, as enthusiastic as a Ferengi mudpuppy. “What shall we do first?” he asked. “Round up the usual suspects?”

Odo considered his next move. “Get me a list of all your guests and I’ll invite each of them in for a chat.”

Quark looked at him dubiously. “A chat? What if they won’t come in for a chat?”

Odo smiled thinly. “Oh, they’ll come in. It’s all in the eloquence of the invitation. As you well know. And the sooner they come in, the sooner they can leave. In the meantime,” he added, “there are other avenues to explore.”

He slid off the barstool and headed for the door. As he walked, his body rippled, its surface shimmering, melting, and re-forming. By the time he entered the Plaza, the investigator was wearing his old Bajoran uniform, now somewhat out of date compared to those of the current Bajoran militia members. But that didn’t matter. He wasn’t masquerading as one of them.

He just wanted to wear something that matched his state of mind.

Chapter 15

“I’ll be with you in a minute, Odo,” Blackmer said. “I’m pulling up the footage from every feed in Quark’s, from the time the Grand Nagus brought in the scroll and hooked up the force field, till the guests”—he paused—“escaped.”

The Changeling nodded, letting his gaze peruse Blackmer’s office. The room was larger than his own office on the old station had been. The desk had far more drawers than he could imagine anyone might require. Odo didn’t see the point of having storage spaces for items he didn’t plan on using—or storing, for that matter. The desk chair had ergonomic padding, something Odo hadn’t bothered with, since he could readily adapt his body to the shape of any chair. The office equipment and interfaces to the main computer looked familiar, except for a few new machines that likely did . . . something.

The office did resemble his in one aspect: Blackmer had no personal items lying about. No family holos on the wall. No useless pieces of bric-a-brac cluttering his desk. Just a lone coffee cup sitting near the lower left corner.

Odo hadn’t required one of those, either.

“All right, here you go,” Blackmer said, turning the screen toward Odo. After pointing out (unnecessarily) how Odo could access each feed, the commander leaned back in his ergonomic chair. “Anything else I can get you?” he asked.

“Actually, yes. I need a list of any ships that may have left the station during that same time frame.”

Blackmer nodded and began tapping his padd.

Odo reviewed the footage from the party first, paying particular attention to angles that hadn’t been apparent to him at the time. Aside from the server’s mishap with the industrial replicator—the incident that had caused the brief power outage throughout the bar—nothing unusual caught his attention.

He then scanned images of the bar’s upper level, including the holosuite chambers, both active and inactive; the public and private waste extraction stations; the prep area where the additional replicators and kitchen items were kept; and all of the corridors. Everything seemed to be in order—except . . .

“Commander,” he asked, “where is the footage from the employees’ lounge?”

Blackmer looked up, surprised. “You should have access to it right there.”

Odo gestured at the monitor. “It’s not here.”

Blackmer pushed his chair back, his body language radiating mild impatience. He quickly scrolled through the list on Odo’s screen. “It’s this one: Q-7-az//22.” He attempted to activate it—and instantly understood the problem.

“Nothing’s there,” he said, staring at Odo. “The sensors must have been disconnected.”

“Oh, that!” said Quark. “That was a special security refinement for the event.”

Only a moment earlier he’d been attempting, and utterly failing, to keep his demeanor calm and matter-of-fact. But Odo and, admittedly, Blackmer were excellent interrogators. Sweating profusely, he pleaded, “Surely you can’t fault me for trying to keep the scroll safe, can you?”

“A security refinement?” echoed Odo. “Is that what you call it? That’s interesting, isn’t it, Commander Blackmer?”

Blackmer’s face was flushed. He looked annoyed. Very, very annoyed. “Interesting doesn’t cover it. Whatever you did blocked the station’s master surveillance system. Was that the intent, Quark?”

Now Quark played the “shocked at the very notion” card. “What? No, of course not!” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Of course, I’m not the one who set it up. Rom did, so who knows what—”

“Oh, no!” cried Rom, hustling back from the corridor that led to the employees’ lounge. “You’re not going to blame that on me. I told you when you told me to do it that it wasn’t a good idea to cut the room off from station security!”

“You told him to cut off the sensors,” Blackmer confirmed, disgusted. He took a step closer to the Ferengi and leaned down to stare at him from above.

Quark hemmed, hawed, and squeaked a bit, then finally said, “Okay, okay. Yes. I asked Rom to find a way to shield the lounge from outside monitoring. I didn’t want anyone to tap into it and look at the scroll without paying. People like Eisla Darvis from FNS were here. She’s the type who would have done something sneaky to boost her ratings.

“But look, I didn’t do any permanent damage. See?” He grabbed Rom’s hand and retrieved a small black box the Nagus/former engineer had been holding. “Rom removed the block. The feed should be working fine now. No harm done.”

“No harm done?” echoed Blackmer, his tone incredulous and, from Quark’s point of view, somewhat menacing. “You interfered with station security. Because of you, I’ll have to restructure the entire system so that no one can do it again. I should have you brought up on charges—and I would too, if you’d done damage to anyone other than yourself, and your . . . embassy. Luckily for you, it’s out of my hands, jurisdiction-wise. But I’m sure your own people will manage to think of something suitable to punish the two ‘gentlemen’ responsible for losing their precious scroll.”

The color drained from Rom’s face, leaving him looking pastier than the remnants of the glop that had poured out of the industrial replicator. “Oh, Brother,” he moaned. “Now you’ve done it. When I get home, they’ll throw me into the Vault of Eternal Destitution. And you too!”

“What makes you think I’m going back to Ferenginar?” snapped Quark. “I live here.”

“That could change,” said Blackmer ominously.

Quark’s head twisted around so quickly his neck cracked. “What’s that?” he said.

“You forget, Quark,” explained Odo. “If Rom gets deposed as Nagus, this will no longer be the Ferengi Embassy at Bajor. It’ll just be Quark’s Bar, subject to Federation and Starfleet rules and regulations.”

“And tenant rules,” added Blackmer. And without another word, he walked out of the bar.

Odo stood there for a moment, enjoying the look on Quark’s face, then turned to follow Blackmer.

“Wait!” shouted the barkeep. “What about the interviews? You—”

“I’ll be back,” Odo said.

He was smiling as he left the bar. It’s funny, he thought. I told myself there was nothing I missed about this place. But I was wrong. I didn’t realize how much I missed seeing Quark walk off the edge of a cliff.

When he got to the stockade, he was surprised to see Blackmer looking calm and practically cheerful. At Odo’s questioning glance, Blackmer explained, “I’m used to him. He might make me furious, but he doesn’t get under my skin anymore. I just like to make him think that he does. Keeps me one step ahead of him.”

Odo smiled. “Commander, I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Blackmer laughed. “Oh, by the way, no ships left the station during the period in question. A few were scheduled to depart right after the party ended—the nightly Bajoran shuttle and several private Ferengi passenger vessels—but, of course, we stopped them as the captain ordered.”

Odo nodded thoughtfully. “That means the thief didn’t manage to leave the station after he replaced the scroll with the hologram. He probably thought that he had plenty of time before the theft was discovered.”

“He couldn’t have foreseen that the bar would have that power surge,” Blackmer said. “So he’s stuck here. All you have to do is find him in the next twenty-five hours.”

Odo shrugged. “I’ve had tougher assignments.”

“So tell me, Mister . . .”

Eisla Darvis glanced down at her padd to check the Ferengi’s designation. She’d already questioned several of the businessmen after they’d streamed into the Replimat, and, to be honest, they all looked alike to her. This one, her notes reminded her, was a clothing magnate named—

“. . . Sneat, exactly what atrocity was Ambassador Quark committing in that so-called ‘scroll room’?”

“I wasn’t in that room when the trouble started,” the Ferengi replied. “Actually, when the lights went out, I was thinking of coming over here for some real food. Those party appetizers were terrible. But before they let me out of the embassy, I heard a hew-mon Starfleeter say that the scroll was a hologram! Can you imagine!”

“I can imagine,” said Eisla. “No wonder he didn’t want to let me show it on my broadcast.”

Sneat looked confused. He didn’t know anything about her broadcast. Still, he liked looking at this clothed fe-male, so he kept talking. “That’s when Quark started screaming that the real scroll had been stolen and that someone had put a hologram projector in its place. I don’t know who did what,” Sneat said. “But I’m pretty sure that the Council will chew into Quark like a clutch of razor-toothed gree-worms.”

As the Ferengi wandered off, Eisla called her crew together. “I want to shoot a newsbreak about this on the Plaza. How fast can you get set up?”

“Five minutes,” said her soundman. “Do you want to include a comment from Quark?”

Eisla cast an icy glance toward the bar/embassy. “He won’t talk,” she sneered. “I can do it without him. We’ll run with the eyewitnesses.”

Chapter 16

A Terran midshipman, whose civilian freighter was undergoing maintenance at the Enterol VI facility, waved a finger at the viewscreen behind the bar and bellowed, “I told ya!” Turning to his cohort on the next stool, he shouted—despite being only inches apart—“That blue bastard couldn’t win an anbo-jytsu match even if he could see through his helmet.”

Fred didn’t like Terrans. He could tolerate most of the ones who wore Starfleet uniforms; they, at least, seemed to have some social training. It was the unruly ones that bothered him, especially the ones who drank that unpalatable solution they referred to as “beer.” Fred didn’t like the taste of beer. Or the color of beer. And he particularly didn’t like having to determine if he should serve beer at nine degrees Celsius, or at thirteen degrees Celsius, or at “room temperature,” whatever that meant. As near as he could figure, every request was contingent on which part of their planet the Terran was from, and he wished they’d make up their minds and set a standard.

These two Terrans, in particular, were full of beer, and Fred liked them about as much as he liked beer.

“Fifty says he smashes the red one,” the other Terran shouted back. Reaching into a shoulder pouch, he grabbed a handful of transport payment chips and dropped them, loudly, on the bar.

“NO BETTING,” Fred said sternly as he stepped in front of the two. Actually, he loved betting; foolish wagers by drunken travelers added greatly to his coffers. But these two had overstayed their welcome. All he wanted from them was their exit.

“Oh, yeah?” the Terran on the left yelled at him. “Wad’ya gonna do about it?”

That’s when the combatant in blue swung the sensor end of his staff within a quarter inch of his rival’s chin; the rival in red ducked by spinning to the right in time to flip his staff, cushion end up, into the blue man’s solar plexus; and Fred, in shiny silver carapace, grabbed the puny Terrans by his upper pincers and carried them, clawing and screaming, into the station’s corridor. Leaning over them, his antennae waving just above their noses, Fred calmly stated:

“And don’t come back—beer breaths.”

Back inside, Fred counted the payment chips the Terran had dropped. More than enough to cover their bar bill. At the other end of the bar, his best customer sat up, apparently awakened by the relative quiet of the room now that no one was shouting at the screen. Waving an empty glass at Fred, the big guy looked up at the red-and-blue blur of anbo-jytsu opponents crashing into each other.

Suddenly the sports image was replaced by the interlocking polygon logo of the Federation News Service. “We interrupt this programming for an important newsbreak,” an anonymous voice said, and then the image changed again, to show a familiar-looking golden-follicled female.

“This is Eisla Darvis,” the female said, “reporting for FNS from Space Station Deep Space 9, where the most valuable possession belonging to the people of Ferenginar was scheduled to go on display today, following the dedication of their new embassy here. But word has just reached this reporter”—and she paused for maximum dramatic effect—“that it is missing. Yes, the original hand-illustrated scroll containing the sacred Rules of Acquisition set down by Gint, the first Grand Nagus, over ten thousand years ago, has disappeared and is presumed stolen. The last persons known to have seen the scroll, the persons who appear to be responsible for its removal from the Ferengi Vaults of Opulence, are the current Grand Nagus, Rom”—a close-up image of Rom appeared onscreen—“and his brother, Quark, a bartender who also holds the title of ‘ambassador’ at the Ferengi Embassy.” A less than flattering portrait of Quark flashed onscreen—and remained for longer than seemed necessary in order to make a journalistic point. When the face of the reporter reappeared, she continued: “An investigation into the disappearance is now under way, and for now, that has triggered a suspension in travel to and from Deep Space 9. There is no word on when that suspension will be lifted.

“As for the repercussions for the Nagus and his brother, time will tell.

“This reporter, for one, will continue to seek the truth, and will continue to bring you updates on this evolving situation as details are confirmed. This is Eisla Darvis for FNS.”

Fred mixed a martini during the newsbreak and placed it in front of his typically thirsty customer. But the big-headed guy didn’t touch it. He just sat, transfixed, staring at the screen. When the report ended, he continued staring, apparently lost in thought. What’s bothering him? Fred wondered, and he was just about to ask, when a group of uniformed Andorians stepped through the door. Greeting them with a hearty welcome, the Enteroli barkeep began taking drink orders.

On the huge viewscreen behind the bar, the combatant in red knocked the blue fighter into the far corner of the arena with an unprecedented baln’jar twist. The action caught the customer’s eye and pulled him out of his reverie. As he picked up the fresh drink, he heard a growl of hunger from one of his stomachs. The big fellow considered his options for a moment, then ordered a basket of Aldebaran algae puffs.

Chapter 17

The line winding from Quark’s bar into the Plaza looked a lot like the line prior to the embassy dedication. Many of the same people were there.

The mood, however, was very different.

“I can’t believe I’m under investigation,” growled Phlebitz, a highly successful spice manufacturer. “I didn’t want to come to this party in the first place.”

“It was horrible!” said Trapunto, a well-known fashion designer. “Watered-down drinks, crummy food, and a fake scroll! And did you see those servers’ outfits by Raldo?” Trapunto made a gagging sound. “The Chamber of Opportunity should give this place an ‘Avoid at All Costs’ rating!”

“It already has one,” said Trapunto’s partner, Boucle, who was standing next to him in line. “In fact, I don’t think he’s ever gotten a thumbs-up from them.”

“Hey, Quark—why don’t you send out one of the dabo girls with some drinks?” shouted a Ferengi near the end of the line. “It’s the least a considerate host might do.”

Quark thrust his head out of the bar’s doorway to respond, “That’s still not funny, Chintz!”

Cheap idiot, he thought as he stalked back over to the table where Odo was conducting his interviews. He arrived just in time to see Schlecht, a member of the Congress of Economic Advisors, get up from his chair and head for the Plaza. Schlecht gave Quark a dirty look as they passed each other.

“What about him?” Quark queried Odo.

“Solid alibi,” responded Odo.

“A likely story,” Quark snorted in disgust. “Have you talked to Brunt yet?”

“Not yet, but—”

“I know that Brunt did it,” Quark raved. “He wormed his way into this private party, and then he wormed his way into the scroll room when I wasn’t looking and—”

“The footage that I examined accounts for Brunt’s movements the entire evening,” Odo countered. “From the moment that you let him buy his way in until he entered the lounge along with Captain Ro. And you already were in there. So how, or when, do you think he swapped the real scroll for the holoprojector?”

“That’s your job to establish,” Quark snapped. “I just know he’s guilty—so find a way to prove it.”

“We’ll see,” the former constable said calmly as he glanced at his list of interviewees. “I’ve spent the last hour talking to the people I felt were most likely to have committed the theft. You’ll be pleased to know that my central criterion was, ‘Who truly wanted the privilege of destroying the ambassador?’ ” Odo smiled at Quark. “It was quite a long list. Unfortunately, while most of them would, indeed, like to see you destroyed, none of them seems to have had the initiative to plan the crime.” Looking toward the bar’s entrance, he noted, “Your favorite suspect is next in line.”

Odo waved him forward, and Brunt approached the table with a confident smile. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” he said, seating himself in front of Odo. He completely ignored Quark’s presence.

Quark opened his mouth to toss out an accusation—but a glance from Odo made him close it quickly.

“All right, Brunt,” Odo began, “please give me an account of your recent activities.”

“I arrived on the station at approximately 1830 hours, on Slug-o-Cola’s company shuttle,” he said. “You can ask Nilva to substantiate that. He traveled in his personal shuttle earlier in the day, but he arranged for me to take the company shuttle, in the seat normally reserved for Sluggo—who’s dead, you know,” Brunt said, giving Quark a pitying look. “Been dead for years, but they keep the seat available out of respect. And I”—his chest rose—“sat in it.”

Quark gritted his teeth but said nothing.

“When I disembarked at Deep Space 9,” he continued, “I walked directly to this bar. In fact, the first people I spoke to were Quark and”—Brunt looked around and spotted someone standing just behind Quark, trying to look inconspicuous—“Shmenge! That delightfully intelligent young man over there.”

Quark looked over his shoulder and glared at Shmenge, leaping to, what was for him, an obvious conclusion. “So that’s how you did it, eh, Brunt?” he snarled. “You had an accomplice!”

“Utter nonsense,” Brunt scoffed. “I’m sure that our fine interrogator here will explain that you had young Mister Shmenge fully engaged in preparation for your meaningless party. But as long as we’re making up stories, how’s this? Let’s say that you talked our current dim-witted Nagus into bringing the scroll, and then, after he activated the force field, you slipped into the room, de-activated it, made an image of the open scroll with your clever little pocket holoprojector, and walked out with the item.

“That probably was Quark’s plan all along,” Brunt said directly to Odo. “To steal the scroll and make it look like an outsider took it.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” Quark exploded.

“Oh, I don’t know, Quark,” Odo spoke up, clearly enjoying the colorful exchange between the two adversaries. “Brunt’s tale is easily as feasible as yours.”

“I—my—why—” Quark sputtered. Odo’s comment had so rattled him that he was unable to put together a coherent response.

“May I go?” Brunt asked Odo.

Odo nodded, and Brunt stood up. “Of course, you won’t be allowed to leave the station until my investigation has concluded,” the Changeling added.

“That’s all right,” Brunt said with a smile. “I just want to find a palatable meal, since I know I won’t find one in here. Those appetizers, by the way”—he stopped to look at the flabbergasted Quark—“were truly terrible.”

As he turned to walk away, Quark spun around, looking for someone, anyone, upon whom to heap his anger. And then he saw Shmenge, shaking hands with Brunt as he wished him a safe journey.

“You!” Quark said, pointing an accusing finger at his apprentice. “You’re fired!”

Shmenge’s face fell. “But—I didn’t—”

“Don’t grovel, lad,” Brunt said. “Not to him, anyway. How’d you like to have dinner with an Entrepreneur?”

Shmenge’s jaw dropped, then he nodded rapidly and followed Brunt out into the Plaza.

“Good riddance!” shouted Quark to both of them.

Odo gestured to the next man in line, but Quark nudged the Changeling and whispered, “No. No. Him.” Odo followed Quark’s gesture directly to someone down the line. Odo recognized him at once. It was Krax, son of former Grand Nagus Zek.

“Him? Why him?” Odo asked.

“Because he’s had it in for me for years.”

Odo released an exasperated sigh and waved to the surprised Krax.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Krax said after sitting down. “I have a great position working in the Nagal Palace with Rom. Why would I want to jeopardize that?”

“Well,” Odo said, preempting Quark’s expected interruption. “As I recall, you were quite disappointed years ago when Quark was appointed Nagus—albeit temporarily—rather than you. Disappointed enough to make an attempt on his life.”

Krax looked shocked. “Don’t forget that Quark’s brother was also involved in that attempt! I don’t see you accusing him of stealing the scroll himself.”

“Rom was a different person then,” Quark said. “He was jealous of my success. These days he has everything he could possibly want.”

“But so do I!” argued Krax. “I’m First Clerk, the power behind the throne—I don’t want to be the throne!”

“That doesn’t mean you haven’t been plotting to destroy me all along, planning it out step by step, year by year.”

“Playing the long con?” Odo asked, clearly amused.

“Of course,” Quark said.

“But what would that ultimately get him?” asked Odo, suddenly playing Krax’s advocate. “Revenge? Klingons desire revenge. Ferengi desire profit. If Krax stole the scroll, the end result would be that Rom was tossed out of office, and Krax would be out of a very cushy job.”

“But—” Quark attempted to interrupt.

“And besides,” Odo concluded, “Krax was in the bar for the entire party. He didn’t even get up to use the ’fresher.”

“I have excellent self-control,” said Krax proudly.

“You might have said that in the first place,” Quark said to Odo.

“Why spoil the fun?” Odo responded. He turned back to Krax. “You can go,” he said. “Don’t leave the station.”

As Krax stood, the grumbling from the Ferengi businessmen still waiting in line began to escalate.

“Can I go too?” inquired Phlebitz. “I’m starving!”

“This is the worst gala ever,” said Boucle. “I knew we should have left when that pair of lummoxes pushed past us in their haste to exit! One of them actually stepped on Trapunto’s foot!”

Trapunto nodded and scowled at Quark.

Abruptly, Odo got to his feet and walked over to the two Ferengi. “What did you just say?” he asked. “Someone left the bar before the party officially started?”

“Yes,” said Trapunto. “They appeared to be in a hurry—although I heard one of them complaining about leaving before the appetizers were served. Not that the appetizers were worth staying for, by the way.”

“They were horrible!” agreed Phlebitz. And seven other Ferengi within earshot voiced their agreement.

“They weren’t horrible,” Quark shouted. “You obviously have no taste for fine cuisine!”

The conversation threatened to turn into a full-scale brawl, but Odo hustled right past it and headed straight to the security office.

“I need to see the footage from the area outside the bar, right before Quark dropped the field at 1900 hours,” he told Blackmer.

The two men studied the feed and noticed that as the bulk of the guests were entering the bar, a pair of Dopterians stepped out, squeezed through the crowd, and disappeared into the Plaza.

A quick check of the guest list confirmed that no Dopterians had been invited. However, Blackmer’s transit records revealed that a pair of them had arrived at the station via the public shuttle from Bajor early that afternoon.

“Congratulations, Odo,” Blackmer said. “It looks as though you have two prime suspects.”

“Mm-hmm,” the shapeshifter responded thoughtfully. “They probably got the scroll right before the guests arrived and planned to leave the station on the return shuttle to Bajor after the party.”

“That shuttle never left,” concluded Blackmer. “So we were right. They’re good and trapped here. But where do you think they’re hiding?”

Odo looked out into the center of the Plaza. Suddenly, he smiled. “One of them was hungry.”

Chapter 18

Actually, many of Quark’s Very Important Ferengi guests were hungry. From the moment they’d escaped from the embassy, they’d been foraging through the Plaza like feral berserker cats in search of sludge rats. The Replimat stood close by, but most of the businessmen bypassed it to sniff out meals more suited to their refined palates.

After their unhappy experience at the Ferengi Embassy, the last thing anyone craved was Ferengi food, especially given that the only Ferengi food on the station came from Quark’s. Some felt bold enough to test the Klingon cuisine at tiny Aktuh and Melota. This intimate bistro, under the same Klingon management that had served on the old station, specialized in fresh racht. And racht, as all Ferengi diners know, tastes like tube grubs.

As one would expect on a station in Bajoran space, the Plaza boasted numerous dining houses with offerings of Bajoran fare. For the more eclectic, an Andorian fast-food kiosk specialized in redbat noodle bowls. And something called a “taco stand”—very popular, if the number of hew-mons that gathered there was any indication—held forth in a location conveniently close to the main turbolift shaft.

The Plaza’s newest—and most expensive—culinary establishment was Ibix, a Xindi-Aquatic sushi bar that recently had opened after nearly a year of construction. Reasoning that fish-filled aquariums fascinated terrestrial species, the restaurant’s architect surrounded the dining area with floor-to-ceiling panels of thick transparent aluminum. Diners watched in awe as the Xindi-Aquatic chefs practiced their art in the underwater kitchen. Once a meal was prepared, “right before the customers’ eyes” (as the investment brochure emphasized), the chef placed it on a food-grade transporter platform and beamed it to the air-breathing humanoid servers stationed in the dining area.

The quietly elegant atmosphere within Ibix usually was punctuated by delighted sighs and grunts of pleasure as diners savored subtle slivers of sashimi, and shattered by rounds of enthusiastic applause as the cadre of chefs exhibited dazzling skills in synchronized slicing and dicing. Tonight, however, grousing and griping drowned out the more pleasant sounds. Complaints led the conversations: about being trapped on the station; about the quality of Quark’s hors d’oeuvres; about the inevitable demise of the Ferengi Alliance under “that idiot” Grand Nagus Rom. Members of Ferenginar’s exclusive Entrepreneurs’ Club barely noticed the flavor of the expensive food they were wolfing amidst their bouts of nonfood-oriented bellyaching. And Brunt, the Club’s newest member, was the loudest.

“Quark will get what’s coming to him soon enough,” Brunt said, tossing something with wiggling tentacles into his mouth. “I’m just happy I’m here to witness his downfall.”

Sinking into the plush banquette seat directly across from Brunt, his biggest fan nodded enthusiastically. “Me too,” said Shmenge, former intern to Quark, now Shmenge the unemployed. “He’s been just awful to work for.” The youth looked around in wonder as he took in his lavish surroundings and watched the Xindi-Aquatics season slices of seafood. “Thank you so much for inviting me, sir,” he said, practically hyperventilating with joy. “I’ve always wanted to come into this place, but they have ridiculous standards.”

“Yes, well, they do require that you can pay for your meal.” Brunt chuckled. “But it’s my pleasure to treat you. You’re far too clever to spend your entire life working in a bar.” Picking up another morsel of seafood, which was doing its best to extricate itself from his grasp, he queried, “What are you planning to do next?”

Shmenge looked down at his own plate and poked a sluggish sea urchin with a chopstick. “Well, I’m not sure. My moogie won’t pay for a second internship, and my royalties from the bar’s holosuite programs are tied up in investments on the Ferengi Futures Exchange.”

“Well,” said Brunt, crunching down on a mollusk shell with his sharp teeth, “as I said, you’re a smart young fellow. You’ll find a way.”

Shmenge took a deep breath. “I was hoping that . . . maybe you would take me on as . . . as an apprentice.”

Brunt burst into laughter. “An apprentice! Nilva, did you hear that?” he called over to the neighboring table.

“Nope,” said Nilva, who was busy slurping a bucket-size bowl of the Chef’s Special Catch-of-the-Day Miso Chowder Extravaganza.

“He thinks that Entrepreneurs take on apprentices!”

Nilva looked up, his face smeared with lumps of tofu and seaweed, and a Terellian crab claw clamped onto one of his ears. “Ho ho!” he chortled, and he again dropped his head into the bucket.

Brunt leaned forward, placing his face close to Shmenge’s. “Entrepreneurs don’t have apprentices,” he explained. “Entrepreneurs only have conniving enemies, underlings fighting desperately to grab a share of the wealth!” He laughed heartily. “Actually, that’s how I got into the Club,” he said in a confidential tone. He straightened in his chair and chomped down hard on something that squeaked in protest.

Shmenge’s face fell.

Noting the youth’s expression, Brunt patted his hand in pseudosympathy. “Oh, buck up. Hitting rock bottom doesn’t hurt nearly as much when you’re young and flexible. Look at it this way: At least you’re not in the Nagus’s position. Loss of the Sacred Scroll! That’s about as serious a crime as I can think of—and he’s responsible! They’re going to lock him up forever!”

And Brunt laughed and laughed, this time joined by Nilva, Chintz, Schlecht, and a dozen other very wealthy men with food in their mouths.

Sitting quietly in a corner booth, far from the entrance and oblivious to the boisterous conversations going on around them, two slouching Dopterians silently finished their meals. A server stopped by, carrying a dessert tray, but the older of the two waved it away. “Just the check,” he said with a scowl.

“But, HoJahn—” his partner protested.

“Don’t whine at me,” the older of the two said. He picked up the check that the server had just delivered and held it under his partner’s nose. “You see this, Gydian?”

“A guy’s gotta eat!” protested the younger man. “If you’d just let me have some of those yummy-looking appetizers set out for the party . . .”

“I should have let you stay behind to eat them!” HoJahn said. “Then you’d have learned the value of a quick exit. And this,” he said, looking down again at the bill, “this’ll be your last meal if we don’t find a way to get out of here soon.”

He stood up, pulling off a soiled bib with a picture of a crustacean on it. “Let’s get out of here. It’s not good to stay in one place for very long. Someone may notice us.”

As if on cue, a figure stepped in front of them, blocking the light and casting a shadow over the Dopterians’ plan.

“Leaving without dessert, gentlemen?” Odo said. “Well then, why don’t we adjourn to the new Ferengi Embassy for some . . . conversation.”

Inside Quark’s office, HoJahn and Gydian stood facing two very agitated Ferengi as the Changeling patted them down. It took only a moment for him to find the cylinder containing the scroll in an inner pocket of Gydian’s jacket.

HoJahn glared at his partner, who shrugged apologetically.

Odo handed the cylinder to Rom, who burst into a huge grin. “It’s back!” he cried joyfully, giving it a kiss.

“Ugh! Stop that, Rom,” said Quark. “You don’t know where it’s been.”

“I know where it hasn’t been,” Rom responded, cradling it lovingly in his arms. “But now it’s back where it belongs.”

“Okay, it’s back,” said HoJahn, slipping into his most charming, salesmanlike persona. “No harm done, right?” He turned toward the door but found the way blocked by the imposing figure of Odo.

“I have a question for you gentlemen,” Odo began, folding his arms across his chest. “Why would you want to steal this? It’s an important relic to the Ferengi but not to other species.”

“Are you kidding?” said HoJahn, deciding that there was no point in not telling him. “It’s written in latinum! Latinum is valuable on many planets, not just Ferenginar.”

“And you planned to remove that latinum . . . how?” asked Odo.

“Oh, that’s the easy part.” Gydian giggled. “We were going to burn it and extract the latinum.”

The two Ferengi visibly staggered, then stared at the Dopterians in disbelief. “You—you were going to burn Ferenginar’s most precious relic . . . for the latinum?” said Rom.

The would-be thieves looked proud of themselves. “Good plan, huh?” said HoJahn.

“A STUPID plan!” hissed Quark. “A really, really, really stupid plan! If you’d bothered to do any research at all, you’d know that the latinum in this scroll is ancient. It dates back to a time before the Ferengi had the technology to properly refine latinum. It’s full of impurities—worth next to nothing on today’s latinum exchange.”

The Dopterians sneered at the Ferengi. “Do you think we’re fools?” said HoJahn. “We scanned it after we left the bar—”

“Embassy,” corrected Quark.

“Whatever,” said HoJahn. “The latinum in this scroll is 99.44 percent pure, the same as the stuff that’s in circulation right now!”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Quark.

“Oh, yeah?” HoJohn chuckled. “Just test it.”

“I’ll show you,” Quark sputtered. He snatched the cylinder from Rom and carefully removed the scroll. Then he pulled a scanner from his desk drawer. Smiling, he activated it and ran it over the artifact.

Rom, Odo, and the two Dopterians watched as Quark’s smile faded. He ran the scanner over the scroll a second time.

And a third.

“That’s . . . impossible,” the Ferengi ambassador to Bajor murmured. “Unless—”

Eyes bulging in horror, Quark turned his gaze to meet his brother’s. A moment of silence drifted away before they shrieked, in unison:

“It’s a FAKE!”

Chapter 19

Here they come, Fred thought, and he grabbed his control wand to lower the volume coming from the viewscreen.

It had become a late-afternoon ritual. As if on cue, a gaggle of regulars, just off their work shifts, exploded through the door. Males and females of a half-dozen different species waved to catch Fred’s attention and order their favorite libations before heading to the far end of the bar where the big fellow sat spinning stories of his adventures throughout the quadrant. The men leaned on the bar, guffawing and tossing in good-natured asides about the unlikely nature of the tales, while the females clustered around the tale-teller, laughing, sighing, or crying at his verbal dexterity as he described evocative visuals of the wonders that awaited them all, just out there, far beyond the stars.

He sure does have a way with people, Fred thought for the hundredth time.

A doll-like Arcadian that Fred knew to be a subspace frequency analyst climbed into the man’s lap, then stood up to lean on his shoulder as she whispered in his tiny ear. He responded by bursting into laughter, then launched into a story that most of his audience had heard before—and all seemed happy to hear again.

Fred smiled contentedly. I know he’s got to be full of vole feckles, he thought, but as long as he keeps shoveling it, and that crew keeps buying drinks, I’m going to be one wealthy Enteroli.

Behind the bar, the face of the female reporter from FNS, who was standing once again in the middle of Deep Space 9’s Plaza, flashed on the viewscreen. When Fred’s favorite customer saw her, he stopped in the middle of his story and asked Fred to turn up the audio.

“. . . stolen original scroll of the Ferengi Rules of Acquisition has been recovered on Deep Space 9. Two Dopterian suspects are in custody and will be transported to Ferenginar for trial. However”—the reporter paused as the image moved in for a close-up of her face—“there may be a strange new twist in this case. Rumors are spreading throughout the station suggesting that while the recovered scroll is indeed the artifact that Grand Nagus Rom brought to the station, it does not appear to be the priceless original scroll. It is, apparently, a clever forgery.

“The involvement of the Nagus and his brother, Ambassador Quark, in this new turn of events is unclear at this time. The Ferengi Council is said to want immediate answers.

“Please stay with the Federation News Service for updates. This is Eisla Davis, signing off.”

“Are you all right?” the tiny Arcadian addressed the big man. He didn’t answer. His focus was inward, on a memory from years earlier, a glimpse of himself holding a scroll: two scrolls, in fact—one in each hand.

Had he screwed up?

The crowd around him began to whisper among themselves, and the lovely young lady climbed out of his lap. She noticed that he kept looking at his hands, first one and then the other.

At last his perplexed audience drifted away. As his thoughts returned to the present, he pushed an unfinished martini aside.

Then he turned to Fred and ordered a large cup of raktajino, extra strong.

Chapter 20

Inside Quark’s Public House, Café, Gaming Emporium, Holosuite Arcade, and Ferengi Embassy, the lights were low and the gaming tables silent. There was, however, the smell of Ferengi home cooking in the air.

With the bar temporarily closed, Ishka felt that it was the perfect location for a family meal before her dear little family scattered to the winds . . . or went to the Vault of Eternal Destitution. Wherever fate ultimately sent each individual.

With the help of the repaired replicator (Rom still had the hands of an engineer), and a few supplies she managed to purchase from a friendly Bajoran produce vendor in the Plaza, Ishka created a repast that she was certain would tempt the Prophets (assuming they ate in that strange wormhole of theirs). Unfortunately, with the exception of the eternally hungry Zek, no one seemed to have much of an appetite.

“Come on, come on,” she said, herding Zek, Leeta, Rom, and Bena from their guest quarters to the bar. Quark, of course, was already there, sitting alone in his office, checking the balance in his personal vault account at the Bank of Bolias and estimating how far it might take him . . . “just in case.” At Ishka’s insistent knock-knock-knocking at his door, he left the office and joined the family at the large tongo table where she’d set up the meal.

Quark’s mood wavered somewhere between “damn depressed” and “on the verge of catatonia.” He normally wouldn’t have taken kindly to his mother serving hot food on his expensive tongo table, but in his present state of mind he had to admit that her transformation of the tongo wheel into a big Lazy Susan was inspired.

If I get to keep the bar after this is all over, he thought, maybe I’ll keep the table this way. Turn it into a revolving buffet.

But while you can lead a Ferengi to puree of beetle, you can’t always make him slurp it up.

Everyone sat down. Ishka spun the wheel, hoping to entice them. Zek immediately helped himself to a wedge of fungi-loaded spore pie. The rest of the group just sat, staring blankly at the wheel.

“Come on, come on—you have to keep up your strength,” Ishka chided as she ladled marzonion buds in krasie juice onto her plate.

Leeta politely reached for a piece of moba fruit and placed it on her otherwise empty plate. Then she stared at the wheel.

Seated next to her, Bena spotted something she definitely liked. “Moogie, may I have a slice of tuwaly pie?”

“That’s dessert, honey,” Ishka started to say. “Wouldn’t you like some—”

“Oh, what difference does it make?” said Leeta, and she served a large helping of the sweet dish to her daughter with a loving smile.

Rom let out a deep sigh. “How could this have happened? And on my watch?”

Bena gave her father an encouraging smile between bites of pie. “Maybe no one back home will find out,” she suggested.

Quark helped himself to a glass of the Calaman sherry his mother had thoughtfully placed on the table. “They already know,” he grunted. “I saw an FNS newsbreak while I was in my office. They’ve told everyone the scroll is a fake.”

Rom groaned.

“And whose fault is that?” said Ishka with a scowl. “You were the one who brought in that . . . that . . . reporter to cover the dedication. And she’s been reporting everything that’s happened here ever since.”

Quark took a large swig of the sherry. She was right. No point in denying it.

Leeta frowned. “Has it occurred to anyone that the scroll might always have been a fake?”

This time, Quark opted to respond. “The real scroll is over ten thousand years old. Gint wrote it that long ago. It’s part of recorded history from that era. But the latinum on this scroll is less than twenty years old.”

Rom groaned again. “What’s going to happen when I get home? I’m in so much trouble.”

Bena dropped her fork. “But, Daddy, it’s not your fault. You thought it was real too!”

“That won’t matter,” Rom went on. “They won’t care about that. The Ferengi Council will probably . . . probably have me sold into indentured servitude.”

“No, Daddy!” Bena cried out, and she ran to her father to hug him tightly. “I won’t let them! I’ll buy you instead! I’ve got a lot in my portfolio!”

Rom smiled and hugged her back. “Spoken like a true Ferengi,” he said, tears glistening in his eyes. Overcome with emotion, Leeta rushed over to hug him from the other side.

Suddenly Quark stiffened as he saw movement over by the entrance. Then he recognized Odo walking toward them, and he relaxed. A little. The Changeling studied the curious tableau before him, shrugged, and said what he’d come to say. “In case any of you care, the Dopterians are in Blackmer’s hands now. He’s putting them and one of his security officers on a shuttle to Ferenginar.”

When no one responded, he went on to his next point. “And traffic to and from the station has been resumed. You may as well reopen the bar.”

“Embassy,” corrected Quark.

“Whatever,” said Odo.

Curious, Ishka looked at Odo and inquired, “Did the Dopterians tell you how they got in?”

“Actually, they did,” Odo responded. “Apparently the servers’ entrance was left unlocked. They were prepared to pick the lock, but, as it turned out, they didn’t need to.”

Leeta and Ishka stared meaningfully at Quark, who suddenly remembered how easy it had been for his family to get in the day before. “Okay, yes—I forgot to look into that. And while we’re at it, yes—I was the one who decided to cut the security feed to the lounge. Not that it makes any difference at this point. We’re all ruined.”

“Listen to me,” Leeta objected. “Bena is right. It’s not Rom’s fault. All he did was reveal a crime that already had been committed. The scroll he took from the Vaults of Opulence was a phony. Who knows how long it’s been in there?”

“Not longer than twenty years,” said Quark. He frowned as something occurred to him. “That,” he said slowly, “would have been during Zek’s term as Nagus.”

And suddenly all eyes turned toward Zek, who was helping himself to the remainder of the tuwaly pie. Looking up, he realized that everyone was staring at him. Uncertain what infraction he might have committed, he opted to play it safe and returned a small portion of the pie to the tongo wheel.

Ishka was aghast. “What are you saying, Quark? Surely you’re not blaming Zek!”

“I put it back,” Zek confessed, pointing to the pie. But that didn’t seem to resolve the problem. They were still staring at him. “Uh . . . what are we talking about?”

Ishka took his hand lovingly. “Oh, Zekkie, it’s okay. We’re talking about that scroll that Rom borrowed from the Vaults of Opulence. We’ve discovered that . . . that it’s a fake.”

Zek blinked and then nodded. “Well, of COURSE it’s a fake,” he said in a brief moment of clarity. “I put the thing in there fourteen years ago.”

Chapter 21

“YOU put it there, Zekkie?” gasped Ishka.

The former Nagus nodded. “Yes, I did,” he said. “Gint’s scroll is very valuable, you know. I was afraid that someday a clever businessman would calculate the odds and decide that stealing the original . . .” He paused, looking into the distance, and his voice became wistful. “Knowing that it was his alone,” he continued, getting to his feet, “and that he could look at it every day, could touch it, hold it, and feel the fire within that comes from knowing that he . . .” Again he paused, his fingers tightening around his drinking glass, which would have shattered if he’d been younger and stronger. “That he owns the most valuable item on the planet!”

Almost vibrating with fervor, Zek tottered backward and flopped into his chair. He took several deep breaths, then continued. “Where was I? Oh! Yes. Well, he might decide that an act of larceny is worth the horrible disgrace he would face if he got caught! Think what a terrible blow that would be for Ferengi civilization!

“So fourteen years ago I had a copy made,” the old man said. “I put that one in the Vault, and I moved the real one to the safest place I know.”

For a moment, the room was silent—and then the silence gave way to an explosion of emotion. Ishka sobbed with happiness. Leeta and Bena joined hands and danced in a circle around Rom, screaming with laughter. Rom simply stood there, face tilted upward, swearing silently that he would never, ever, ever remove anything from the Vaults of Opulence again. Particularly not if it was something Quark wanted.

Quark leaned against the tongo table, so relieved that he actually felt light-headed. He could feel his knees shaking, but when he noticed Odo studying him, a faint smile creasing his normally smooth face, Quark straightened at once and gave the shapeshifter a nod that said “You see—everything turned out fine, the way it always does.”

Then Quark turned to Zek and said, “That was very clever of you.”

“Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” Zek replied. He looked very proud of himself, like the crafty Zek of old.

Rom approached and smiled tentatively. “Um, Zek, you know I’m, uh, accountable for that scroll, and I’ll probably have to show it to the Congress of Economic Advisors when I get home. So . . . will you tell me where that very safe place is?”

Zek began to answer . . . but then he stopped, bewildered. “I . . . I . . . don’t know.”

Quark uttered an expletive. Loudly.

“Mind your mouth,” said Ishka. Turning back to Zek, she said, “Listen to me, baby. You need to concentrate, and I’m sure it will come to you.”

Zek frowned. “No, no—you don’t understand. I didn’t forget. I don’t know where it is because I never knew. I asked Maihar’du to look after it. Maihar’du never forgets anything. He has it somewhere, and he brings it out and shows it to me every now and then. It’s very pretty,” the frail old Ferengi said with a sigh. “And then he puts it back . . . somewhere safe.”

Odo looked around the room. It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen Maihar’du on the station during the former Grand Nagus’s entire visit. “Where is Maihar’du?” the Changeling asked. “I thought he never left Zek’s side.”

“He doesn’t,” confirmed Ishka, “and I can’t tell you how much he wanted to come along for the ceremony. But he’s sick. The poor man is suffering from a bad bout of Hupyrian quinsy.” She gestured at her throat. “It’s very painful. He can barely make a sound.”

“How could you tell?” interjected Quark. “He never talks anyway, with that stupid vow of silence.”

“He talks to me,” snapped Zek, shaking a finger at Quark. “That’s all that counts.” He looked around the room. “Where is he, anyway?”

“Back on Ferenginar, sweetie. Remember how we put him to bed with that poultice of dried Matopin rock fungi, mahko root, Mayak Swamp mud, Yigrish yogurt, and a pinch of salt?”

“It was delicious,” Zek noted, smiling at Ishka. “Thank you for letting me lick the bowl.”

Quark’s mind had already moved on to the next stage. “We need to have Zek contact Maihar’du on Ferenginar right away,” he said, “and tell him to get out here with that scroll.”

“I’m telling you he’s too sick to travel!” Ishka argued. “You’ll have to go to him.”

Rom cast a worried look at his brother. “But if any of us show up on Ferenginar right now—”

Quark nodded. “They’ll arrest us on sight. Thank you, Eisla!” he growled.

“Maybe I could go,” suggested Leeta.

“The Bajoran First Lady of Ferenginar? Yeah. Right—nobody knows your face,” Quark intoned sarcastically.

“Then who?” challenged Leeta.

And then, as the shapeshifter had known they ultimately would, all eyes turned to him. Odo sighed. “All right. I’ll go. I can fly there faster on my own than one of you could in a shuttle anyway. Let him know that I’m coming and what I’ll need.”

He turned to leave—only to be waylaid by Zek, who had a request. “Could you ask him to send me my slippers?”

“Your slippers are here, honey,” Ishka said softly.

“I mean my special slippers,” Zek whispered. “I miss them.”

Odo glanced at Ishka quizzically.

“Oh—he must mean his tribble slippers,” she explained.

“Made from real tribbles!” Zek bragged. “They make my feet feel happy.”

Odo headed for the nearest airlock.

Chapter 22

“Mooooo-gie,” Bena sang sweetly in her silliest voice. “Mooooo-gie,” she repeated, wrapping her arms around Leeta’s waist and leaning her head against her beautiful Bajoran mother’s midriff.

Leeta grinned at her daughter. “What is it, Beeeeeeee-na?” she replied.

Bena giggled. “I was just thinking that there’s nothing to do right now, soooo—maybe we can go see that recreation park? You said that it has a playground. Please, Moogie?”

“I have to help your grandmoogie clear this tongo table. But then—” Leeta paused, just long enough to nudge up her daughter’s excitement. “Then I think it sounds like a great idea! In fact, we can all go. We certainly deserve a little recreation, right?”

“Right!” shouted Bena, her eyes sparkling.

“Well, don’t count me in for recreation,” Quark huffed as he picked up several trays and headed for the kitchen. “Odo’s right. There’s no sense losing any more business right now. I’m going to reopen the bar—and the embassy.”

“Don’t count me in either,” Rom said softly. Then he looked at Leeta. “I’m so nervous. I think I’m going to stay until we hear back from Odo. I wouldn’t be good company at the park.” Turning to Bena, he asked, “Will you mind if I stay here?”

“Of course not, Daddy,” Bena said, and she smiled while her mother kissed him on the top of his head, in the little indentation where the front quarter spheres of his brain met.

“Come on, Zekkie,” Ishka said to the ex-Nagus. “We’re going on an outing to the recreation park. We can sit on the grass and watch Bena play.”

As they walked out the exit, Rom heard the former Nagus saying, “I hope the grass isn’t scratchy. I don’t like scratchy.” Then the current Nagus trudged over to the bar, where Quark was setting up glasses. He reached for a bar rag, intending to help polish the glassware, but he bumped one and it dropped to the floor with a crash.

“Oh, great,” his brother commented grumpily. “Now you can make me nervous.”

With the force field down and the lights turned up, the bar began to feel normal for the first time in days. Quark’s regular customers wandered in, relieved to discover that most of the visiting Ferengi were gone. Quark quickly fell into work mode, mixing beverages as fast as people could order them. There was just one problem.

“Where are all my waiters? Where’s my dabo attendant?” he yelled at Frool. “You’re the only one who’s shown up to work.”

Placing several drink orders on a tray, Frool rattled off an inventory of the missing personnel: “M’Pella went to Bajor to help out Treir—there’s some sorta sports event, so they’re busy; Broik overindulged in the slug liver canapés last night—he’s in the hospital with some kinda ‘digestive’ thing; Issa quit after the replicator threw up on him; you fired Shmenge—”

“Where’s Hetik?” Quark interrupted. “I need someone on that dabo table—it doesn’t play itself, you know!”

“Oh—uh, well, Hetik didn’t know how long you’d be closed down, so he went to see if he could get a part-time job at the spa.”

“Is he up there now?”

Frool nodded nervously.

“Well, go tell him that if he doesn’t get in here right away, he’s going to need one of those special spa skin creams to get my bootprint off his behind!” Quark shouted.

“But—”

“NOW!”

Rom quickly stepped forward and took the tray that Frool was holding. The waiter tossed him a grateful look and raced out the door. “And when you get back,” Quark shouted after him, “remind me to charge Broik for eating appetizers that were meant for the customers.”

Then, turning to Rom, he said, “You can put that down. I’ll get to them myself in a minute.”

“I’ll do it, Brother,” Rom said, sounding rather doleful. “I still remember how.”

Quark looked at him. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Rom,” he said sincerely. “It wouldn’t look right for the Grand Nagus to be slinging drinks.”

“I don’t care,” Rom asserted. “Besides, I’m not sure that I’ll still be the Nagus when this whole mess is over.”

Rom delivered the drinks on the tray and approached new customers as they seated themselves. “What’ll you have?” he asked, and they ordered just as if the guy with the tray wasn’t the highest-placed Ferengi in the galaxy.

“Black hole, iced millipede juice with an Acamarian brandy chaser, a synthale, and a Til’amin Froth,” he reported to Quark, then hustled away to take more orders.

“Bolian tonic water, Maraltian seev-ale, and a shot of tranya, straight up,” he recited as he picked up the previous order.

“One raktajino, a Finagle’s Folly, and a Warp Core Breach.”

And on and on, into the afternoon. As quickly as Quark could mix drinks, Rom delivered them. In no time at all, they fell into their old rhythm of working together, just as they’d done for years. As if they’d been doing it every day, without a hiatus.

As he stepped down from retrieving a bottle of kanar on the top shelf, Quark turned and found himself face-to-face with Rom, who’d jumped behind the bar to grab a bottle of Trixian bubble juice from the cooler. “Excuse me,” the two Ferengi said in perfect unison before each stepped back and moved off to serve his respective beverage.

Then both stopped, again in unison, and turned to glance at each other.

From opposite ends of the bar, they shared a warm, brotherly smile.

Chapter 23

I wonder if this species has a name, Odo thought. He waved his wide pectoral fins up, then down, less to propel than as a guiding force, as he sailed through the surrounding void. He’d first encountered a flock—herd?—school?—of this spaceborne life-form in the Alpha Omicron system, on an earlier trip across the cosmos. The creatures, with their horny carapace of silicates, actinides, and carbonaceous chondrites, resembled the theoretical offspring of a gigantic Terran horseshoe crab and a craggy asteroid. Despite this one’s bulk, it could move at a rapid clip, just shy of warp speed, which made it the perfect choice for what he hoped would be a quick round-trip to Ferenginar.

Once he reached the planet’s atmosphere, Odo transformed himself into a pale blue Ferengi scavenger stork and soared, unnoticed, over the capital city. At last he arrived at the lavish nagal residence and slipped unseen through a window into Zek and Ishka’s spacious suite in the building’s east wing.

Landing gracefully, Odo craned his long avian neck and bobbed his head in quick jerky movements as he analyzed his surroundings. He was in a somewhat musty sitting room filled with expensive but rather worn furniture. Not particularly impressive, he reflected, until he happened to glance at the high ceiling to see a beautiful fresco depicting a bevy of unclothed Ferengi females clustered around a handsomely garbed Ferengi male.

Is that Zek? Odo thought, despite not really wanting to know. He was so absorbed looking at the ceiling that he almost missed a sudden movement in the periphery of his vision: the business end of a large broom, wielded by Zek’s servant Maihar’du, headed straight toward him!

The Changeling quickly transformed into his more familiar humanoid appearance just before the broom came down.

“Maihar’du—it’s Odo!” he said, holding up a hand to prevent the impending swat. “Didn’t Zek tell you I was coming?”

The Hupyrian straightened, blinking rapidly, then bowed his head and raised his hands, palms upward, in a supplicating gesture.

“You weren’t expecting a big bird, is that it?” Odo interpreted.

Maihar’du nodded, wincing as though the movement irritated his swaddled throat. He mimed pouring a cup of tea for Odo, but the Changeling shook his head. “That’s very kind, but unnecessary,” he said. “You know why I’m here. Please take me to the scroll.”

He followed Maihar’du up a flight of stairs, down a long corridor, through a large anteroom, and finally into a tiny bedroom. Judging by the spartan decor and a few Hupyrian family holos, it was clearly the prune-faced servant’s quarters.

This room is hardly big enough for him to do anything other than sleep, Odo thought. He fully expected Maihar’du to activate a secret panel in the wall, or to open a locked cupboard, or even to pull a hidden box from under his bed. Instead, the Hupyrian pulled open a drawer in a wooden cabinet. Odo stepped forward to look—and saw a neatly folded stack of . . . socks.

The “safe place” that Zek had spoken of was, apparently, Maihar’du’s socks drawer. Well, I suppose it wouldn’t be the first place anyone was likely to look, Odo thought.

Maihar’du reached in among dozens of pairs of footwear—socks of all stripes and colors, some clearly in better shape than others. He slowly moved pair after pair aside, until Odo noticed a glint of gold amidst the worsted. A second later Maihar’du unearthed a burnished metallic cylinder. He handed it to Odo, who examined the case very carefully, opened it, and slowly extracted what he’d been seeking. After a moment, he looked around the room but did not see what he needed. “Scanner?” he said. Maihar’du nodded and walked out of the room, Odo at his heels.

The pair walked back through the anteroom, back through the long corridor, back down the stairs, and then through another even longer corridor, at last reaching Zek’s messy office. From the looks of the room, the ex-Nagus hadn’t stopped by for some time. The Hupyrian retrieved something from the top of Zek’s desk and handed it to Odo, who looked at it skeptically, then shrugged and blew off what might have been weeks, months, or years of dust. He ran it over the scroll.

“I need to contact Deep Space 9,” he told Maihar’du. The silent man leaned forward and pressed a button on the side of the desk. The desk blotter slid back, and a communications screen rose, somewhat shakily, from the kneehole area. Odo noted that it was an ancient model, but he was able to activate it and, after a little manipulation, put through his call to Quark.

Chapter 24

“A fake? What do you mean it’s a fake? It can’t be a fake!”

From Odo and Maihar’du’s perspective, Quark’s horrified face sat in the center of a collage of horrified faces. The entire family, with the exception of Bena, was tightly crowded around the bartender in front of Quark’s office communications screen, mouths agape after hearing what they had assumed would be good news.

“I scanned it, Quark,” Odo explained calmly. “The latinum is pure. It’s clearly another forgery.”

Squeezed into the bottom of the transmitted collage, Zek wailed, “This is a disaster!”

“Yes, Zek,” Odo assured him, leaning closer to Zek’s antique. “And it’s your disaster. You gave someone the original scroll, and apparently you got back not one, but two forgeries. The question is, who did you give the original to?”

Now all those faces tilted downward, toward Zek. As they waited for his answer, their expressions became disturbingly accusative. The wizened little man seemed to shrink before Odo’s eyes. It was obvious that he wished he could disappear altogether.

Finally, he murmured exactly what everyone anticipated: “I don’t remember.”

Despite the fact that he had just fulfilled everyone’s expectations, the entire group moaned, even Maihar’du, despite the discomfort to his throat.

Ishka put her arm around her dear one. “Zekkie, listen to me. You remember doing it, right?”

He nodded, looking up at her with some trepidation, as if he expected her to cuff his ears.

Instead, Ishka smiled encouragingly. “You just don’t remember his name?”

“That’s right,” he responded. “I remember talking to someone but . . . I don’t remember his name. I met him during one of those times I was on the station. Here, at the bar. He was always at the bar. Very popular with the ladies.”

On the other end of the conversation, Odo listened carefully. “What did he look like?” he prompted.

“Big fellow,” Zek mumbled. “He was a big fellow . . . with freakishly little ears. Always talking. Yammer, yammer, yammer. And always bragging about the people he knew.” A thought popped into his head, and he turned it around for a moment before speaking again. Then he lifted his gnarled hand to point a knobby finger at the door leading out of Quark’s office. “And he always sat on a stool near the end of the bar.”

Leeta gasped. “That sounds like—”

“Morn!” Quark, Rom, Leeta, and Odo all said in unison.

“He told me he knew the best forger in the quadrant,” Zek said, smiling faintly. “So I asked him to do me a little favor.”

Chapter 25

On the backwater planet of Enterol VI, Fred calculated the long list of numbers for the third time. The sum remained the same. “You’re sure I can’t convince you to hang around a while longer?” he said. “Spring is coming. Lots of really good mud wallows, if you’re into that kind of thing.” He wiggled his antennae suggestively. But the big guy just shook his massive head.

“Suit yourself,” Fred said. He turned the padd around so that it was visible to his fleshy friend. “Six hundred and eighty-two credits,” the bartender said. “I gave you the ‘friends and family’ discount.”

The customer nodded appreciatively and reached into his pocket, pulling out a few slips of gold-pressed latinum and some other odds and ends of alien currency. Grunting impatiently, he requested an empty shot glass.

“A what?” said Fred, thinking he’d misunderstood some colloquialism that originated in a different region of space.

The customer repeated his request.

“Okay, okay,” said Fred with a shrug. He retrieved a tiny glass and set it on the bar, then watched in fascination as the big guy closed his eyes, took a few shallow breaths, and regurgitated a tiny amount of liquid into the glass.

Fred picked up the glass and held it close to one of his multifaceted eyes. “That . . . that’s latinum. Pure liquid latinum. Looks like—yup—right on the money! To the millicredit!”

His customer laughed heartily, then asked a question.

“Nah, I’m not grossed out,” said Fred, transferring the latinum to a flask he kept behind the counter. “I have customers with worse liquids coming out of their mouths, if you know what I mean. This one guy—”

But his friend’s attention had drifted to the big screen over the bar, where the familiar interlocking polygon logo of the Federation News Service was once again in view. Fred saw the familiar female humanoid reporter and automatically turned up the volume.

“—Darvis for FNS. Yet another shocking twist in the saga of the missing priceless scroll of Gint, the first Ferengi Nagus. FNS has learned that a second forgery has been found! This one was in the possession of former Grand Nagus Zek, who is believed to have commissioned both forgeries over fourteen years ago! Where the real scroll is today is a question that no one seems able to answer. But that’s not stopping certain interested parties from making guesses.”

Eisla’s feed segued to an interview she’d conducted earlier on the docking ring, where a shuttle was about to depart from the station. “I understand you have firsthand knowledge of what went on the night of the embassy dedication,” she addressed a young Ferengi. “Do you believe that former Nagus Zek and current Nagus Rom collaborated in this scheme to defraud the Ferengi people?”

“Oh, no—Zek can barely find his way out of the turbolift,” said the Ferengi. “And Rom doesn’t have the lobes to plan something like this. I’d lay odds that the real culprit is Ambassador Quark.”

Eisla nodded, as if she’d suspected that all along. “The Ferengi Board of Liquidators is meeting in special session this evening,” she noted. “And I’ve heard that the Ferengi Commerce Authority is forming a special task force to get to the bottom of this.”

“That’s right,” the young Ferengi said enthusiastically. “And when I get back to Ferenginar, I’m going straight to them, to tell them everything I know.”

Eisla smiled. “Well, thank you very much, Mister . . .”

“Shmenge, FCA,” he said with a huge grin. “Well . . . future FCA, that is.”

The feed returned to Eisla, live on the Plaza. “At this time, the status of the two Nagi is unclear. They remain on Space Station Deep Space 9, but whether they—or Ambassador Quark—will be permitted to remain here or be extradited has yet to be announced. We’ll continue reporting as further details become known.”

Abruptly, the big man watching the newsbreak slammed his meaty fist against the countertop and launched into a blazing litany of profanities. He talked too fast for Fred to discern exactly what he was so worked up about, but the Enteroli did manage to parse one sentence:

That larcenous little rat kept the original!

And before Fred could wish him a pleasant journey, his former favorite customer raced out the door.

Chapter 26

Bartleby laid the dainty brush of drakoulias hair on an oily cleaning cloth and leaned back on his stool to examine his work. To his right, the ancient Halkan still life looked beautiful, but he knew that the copy in front of him far surpassed the original. Still, his job was not to surpass but simply to match. He reached among his paint supplies, picked up his alterizing beacon, and carefully focused its rays on the damp oils. As the colors transformed, the forger yawned, already disinterested in the project. The job complete, he grabbed his cane, limped over to his desktop comm, and opened a signal to the client to let him know that his special order was ready.

He was just about to go into the kitchen to brew a cup of Bajoran deka tea when the bell at his front door sounded. Bartleby didn’t get many walk-in clients, so he pressed a button on the monitor and took a cautious peek at his visitor. A smile came to his face as he recognized the large figure. He remembered him as a storyteller who would make the sharing of his deka tea a lively repast. Leaning heavily on his cane, Bartleby made his way through his hovel and opened the stout wooden door.

“Come in, Morn,” the elderly Kalpazan said happily. “It’s been a long time. Do you have some business for me?”

Morn had to walk carefully, stooped over, in order to fit his ample body under the low ceiling. But once the pair was settled at Bartleby’s kitchen table, he felt comfortable enough. Of course, he hadn’t come here for tea, or for comfort. As the old gentleman set a plate of torpla tarts on the table, the Lurian pulled a padd out of his pocket and thrust it in front of Bartleby’s face. Activating the padd, he ran the FNS newsfeed that mentioned Zek’s forged scroll—the one that, years earlier, Bartleby had told Morn was the original.

“Oh, my,” the Kalpazan said. “That’s terrible. You must have given him the wrong one.”

Morn then called up the earlier FNS feed about the first forgery discovery. When it ended, the Lurian leaned toward the tiny creature, looked him straight in the eye, and held up two fingers. It was impossible to mistake his meaning. He’d received two forgeries from Bartleby, rather than one original scroll and one forgery.

Bartleby’s smile soured a bit. “Well, I certainly can’t explain this,” he said, hemming and hawing while his fingers toyed with the handle of his tea mug. “Someone must have gotten into the Nagus’s palace and taken the original sacred scroll. You know, you just can’t trust—”

Morn got to his feet, ducking to make sure he didn’t hit his head on the beam above. He wrapped the thick fingers of his heavy hand across Bartleby’s scrawny shoulder. He didn’t squeeze; he didn’t lift; he didn’t threaten. He just left his hand there. Heavy. And that was enough.

“Okay, you got me.” The Kalpazan sighed. “I suppose you want to know where it is. I didn’t sell it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

As Bartleby attempted to stand, Morn released the grip on his shoulder. The forger led Morn to the far end of his studio and stopped in front of a secure-looking door—a very short door, suitable only for beings under four feet tall. “You’ll have to lower your head,” Bartleby said, deactivating a number of locks. At last, the door opened and he stepped in.

The Lurian discovered that he had to lower more than his head. He had to hunch over, practically crawling, to follow. When the automatic lights flashed on, Morn gasped.

Works of antiquity covered the walls and the floor, some piled carefully, others strewn helter-skelter on top of the piles. Morn recognized an urn of Bolian crystal steel that he knew would be considered priceless outside of this room. Other items he’d never seen before, but something told him that they all were of extreme value or rarity. Bartleby shifted a number of pieces so that they could move deeper into the room. Finally, he stopped before a beautiful rolltop desk.

“Here we are,” he said, tugging open a drawer. “Legend has it that this desk once belonged to Kiri-kin-tha, the Vulcan scholar. Of course, that legend might be unreal.” He chuckled at his own wit, but, when he saw that Morn didn’t seem amused, briefly fell silent.

The tiny Kalpazan began pulling artifacts out of the drawer, but with no clean surface to lay them on, he turned to Morn. “Here, you have big hands—hold this,” he said, thrusting into the Lurian’s open palms a small marble bust of an Andorian woman, a golden dagger inlaid with Klingon jewels, and a necklace made of Spican flame gems.

Morn stared at Bartleby quizzically. The Kalpazan shrugged and stated, “Because they’re pretty. So I felt compelled to keep them. Collecting pretty things is in my species’ nature. I suppose that’s why there aren’t many of us left.” He cast a look at Morn and sighed. “Most advanced civilizations frown upon our proclivities.”

At last he said, “Here it is, safe and sound.” He lifted up a cylinder elaborately decorated in ancient Ferengi motifs and cradled it in his arms. “Why should such beauty be locked away in a vault forever?” he asked quietly, as though talking to the artifact rather than the Lurian.

Morn glanced around at the veritable warehouse of beautiful objects that Bartleby was hoarding, thinking that being stored in this room wasn’t much different than being locked in a vault. But when he voiced that feeling aloud, Bartleby just looked at him blankly, unaware of the irony.

Reluctantly, the Kalpazan offered the cylinder to Morn—who immediately accepted it, dropping the antiquities he’d been holding onto a pile of folded tapestries. Pulling the scroll out of the container, he unrolled it a few inches. Then he examined it with a small scanner from his pocket.

“Really?” Bartleby said, clearly offended. “You think I’d hide another forgery in here, with all my treasures?”

Morn grunted and concentrated on studying the information that appeared on the scanner. At last he nodded, satisfied. After placing the scroll back into the protective cylinder, he gestured toward the other items in the room and, unable to bypass a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, asked a question.

“Yes,” Bartleby answered, always the businessman. “I’m willing to consider offers. I love each and every piece in here, but . . .” He sighed. “I’m getting old. Do you see anything of interest?”

Morn nodded and pointed to a small, cobweb-covered box.

Chapter 27

It’s all over when the Lurian leaves your bar. That’s how the saying went, anyway.

Quark leaned against the doorframe of Rom’s guest quarters, watching his brother pack. Somehow he couldn’t get that old saying—and the feeling that there was some truth to it—out of his head.

He’d had his ups and downs in business since Morn disappeared. Made a little latinum, lost a little latinum. Enjoyed a few laughs, shed a few tears. Gotten closer to Laren . . . moved farther away from Laren. Planned big plans—and seen his dreams shot down in flames.

Nothing felt quite “right” since the Lurian had left. Quark wouldn’t go so far as to call him a good luck charm . . . but Morn had been a friend. One he could confide in, and confess his occasional screwups to. But where was he now, now that Quark could really use that small sympathetic ear?

On the other hand, this is all his fault. If Morn hadn’t screwed up doing one tiny little favor for Zek, we wouldn’t be in this mess.

Oh, who was he kidding? It was his own fault. If he hadn’t forced Rom to bring the scroll, no one ever would have realized it was a fake. And Rom wouldn’t be the most hated Nagus since Smeet.

“You don’t have to go back, you know,” he said to Rom. “You don’t like all that bureaucratic stuff anyway.”

“I have to go back, Brother,” Rom responded absently. He was looking for something that apparently wasn’t in the drawers or under the bed. “We’ve been over all this. I have to face the Board.” He looked around the room, a frown on his face, followed quickly by a relieved smile when he spotted the edge of Leeta’s pink nightgown hanging over the back of a chair—the one in which Zek was snoozing. He approached the old man quietly and pulled the gown out from under him.

Zek continued to snore.

“Besides,” Rom said, turning to Quark as he folded the delicate lingerie, “what would I do here?”

“You could work in the bar,” Quark said. “Maybe . . . I’d make you a partner. You always wanted that.”

“You don’t even know if you’re going to have the bar after the Liquidators and the FCA get done with us,” Rom said.

“We could start a new one somewhere else. I hear Risa’s looking to rebuild—”

“I wouldn’t want to raise Bena on—” Rom started.

But the mood changed when their mother rushed into the room, holding Bena’s small wrist firmly in her white-knuckled grasp. “You are in so much trouble,” Ishka kept repeating to the little girl, who didn’t look at all sorry for whatever infraction she’d committed.

“What happened?” asked Rom, aghast at how agitated the old woman seemed.

“I found her in a dark corridor,” Ishka began. “She was talking to a stranger!”

“Whaaaaat?” cried Leeta, exiting the room’s refresher with a bag of toiletries. “Bena did what?”

Bena frowned. “It wasn’t a dark corridor. It was over by the jumja-on-a-stick kiosk. I was going to buy Daddy a jumja to cheer him up.”

“But you were talking to a stranger, weren’t you?” insisted Ishka. “A big, hulking thing ready to snatch her up and carry her off!” She stopped to catch her breath. “I started yelling and he ran away.”

Leeta dropped to her knees in front of her daughter. “Oh, sweetie! You know better than—”

Bena rolled her pretty eyes, the ones that reminded Rom so much of his wife’s. “He wasn’t strange!” she protested. “He was nice. Real nice. Grandmoogie is ’zaggerating! Moogie, you said yourself that she always ’zaggerates.”

“What?” Ishka shouted. “You told her that?”

“Shhh,” said Leeta. “I need to hear what Bena has to say. What else did this—” Leeta gulped, concerned for her daughter’s welfare but trying to remain calm. “What else did this big man do?”

Bena held out a pretty picnic basket, woven from slender katterpod branches. “He gave me this.”

Ishka gasped so loudly that she woke up Zek. “I swear I didn’t see that, or I would have taken it directly to station security!” she said.

“Bena!” chided Rom. “You know better than to take things from strangers!”

“But it’s not for me!” Bena responded. “The man asked me to give it to Uncle Quark.”

She held the basket toward Quark, who approached the little girl hesitantly. “To me?” he said, his voice quavering slightly. He wasn’t all that inclined to take things from strangers either. Still, he couldn’t leave Bena holding a potentially unsafe item—not with Rom giving him that imploring look.

Quark sucked in a deep breath and delicately lifted the basket away from Bena’s hands. Slowly, and gently, he placed it on the table. Then he looked at his family. “Well,” he said, faking a smile. “Let’s just see what my . . . ‘secret admirer’ sent, shall we?” Glancing around the room, he spotted Zek’s favorite flitterbird claw backscratcher, and he reached to pick it up.

“Hey!” said Zek. “That’s mine.”

“You’ll get it back,” Quark responded through gritted teeth. And he extended the claw toward the basket to flip open the lid.

Nothing hissed, caught fire, or went boom. He moved closer to the basket, just a little, and stood on tiptoe so he could peek inside from his vantage point. Then Quark gasped, his eyes bulging.

“What . . . what is it, Brother?” asked Rom.

Quark reached inside the basket and retrieved a beautifully decorated cylinder.

This time everyone in the room gasped—except for Zek, who walked over to retrieve his backscratcher. He glanced at the item Quark was holding. “Oh! You found my scroll,” he said.

“Scanner!” shouted Quark, unwilling to take his eyes from this “gift” for fear it would vanish. Rom began pulling things out of the bag he’d been packing, flinging them in every direction. “I can’t find mine!” he cried. As the adults in the room began searching for their own scanners—no good Ferengi ever went anywhere without one—Bena calmly walked to her travel case and retrieved her prize possession: the pink “My Little Scanner” that Rom and Leeta had given her on her last birthday. It was child-size, made for little hands, but fully functional.

She handed it to Quark, who immediately activated it.

The room was deathly still while he removed the scroll from the container and scanned it; then he reeled backward and sat down hard on the bed. “It’s real,” he said, scarcely believing it could be true. “It’s the real thing!”

“I’m saved!” shouted Rom, and Leeta rushed over to hug him.

“My scroll,” said Zek, reaching for it.

Ishka gently smacked his hand. “You leave that alone,” she warned.

Bena glanced inside the basket. “There’s still something in there, Uncle Quark.” And she handed it to him.

It was just a small box, with a thin layer of wrapping material around it. Quark removed the wrapping and opened it. What he saw surprised him even more than the scroll had.

“It’s Dilb the Destitute,” he said, holding up a tiny action figure for everyone to see. “The only Marauder Mo figure I don’t have. I never bothered to collect him because he was destitute. No Ferengi child wanted him! He was the least collected toy in the set. The manufacturer destroyed most of them.” He stared at it in disbelief. “Very few of them survived the purge—so now it’s the most valuable toy to collectors.”

“And it’s still in the original box,” Ishka noted approvingly. “This was sent by a very considerate person.”

Leeta put her hands on Bena’s tiny shoulders and smiled down at her. “Who gave this to you, darling?”

“I don’t know his name,” she admitted. “He was a great big man with a big sad face. He said to tell you and Daddy and Grampa Zek he was sorry.”

“Did he have freakishly tiny ears?” interjected Zek.

The others continued talking, but Quark just stared at the action figure. Somewhere deep inside, the usual feeling of regret over having lost a good customer gave way to a glimmer of hope.

Maybe, the barkeeping ambassador thought, this means he’ll be coming back . . . someday.

Chapter 28

In a seedy saloon on the backwater planet of Zaurak II, a lone customer quietly snoozed with his head on the bar and his fingers encircling the stem of an empty glass.

Walking over to check on the big fellow, the proprietor pitched his voice just loud enough to pierce the customer’s dreams and asked, “Would you like another?”

He sat up, looked around to get his bearings, glanced at the empty glass, and nodded. While the bartender mixed his drink, the customer gazed blankly at a small screen that was streaming a Terran fencing match. The volume was set at a low level that allowed him to understand the announcer, but he didn’t feel the need to listen. The game seemed rather dainty, with its skinny swords and dancelike moves. Nothing anyone would play on Luria.

The bartender brought his new drink and moved back down the bar. One of the players on the screen touched the other with the tip of his weapon; the fighters both dropped their arms; and a stream of product promotions, colorful but meaningless, jiggled across the screen. Then the FNS logo spun into place and an anonymous voice announced a newsbreak. Instantly, the face of a white-haired Efrosian male appeared on the screen.

“Well, the search for the missing scroll of the Ferengi Rules of Acquisition seems to be over,” the Efrosian said, his expression showing little interest in the subject.

The customer leaned forward, tilting his small ear toward the monitor, now straining to hear. “Grand Nagus Rom has returned to Ferenginar with the recovered scroll, which has apparently been missing for . . . fourteen years.” The Efrosian paused here and glanced at someone off-camera, as if to ask, “Could that number possibly be right?”

He cleared his throat and continued. “The Ferengi Board of Liquidators states that it is inclined to accept his explanation of the recovery, pending the results of a perfunctory hearing.

“In other news . . .”

The customer smiled. Lifting his glass at the baffled bartender as if in a toast, he took a tiny sip. Then he laid his head back on the bar, closed his eyes, and began to snore.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Paula M. Block and Terry J. Erdmann are the co-authors of the ebook novella Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: Lust’s Latinum Lost (And Found). They have also written the nonfiction books Star Trek Costumes: Five Decades of Fashion from the Final Frontier; Star Trek Pop-Ups; Star Trek The Original Topps Trading Card Series; Star Trek: The Next Generation 365; Star Trek: The Original Series 365; Star Trek 101; Star Trek: Deep Space Nine Companion; The Secrets of Star Trek: Insurrection; The Magic of Tribbles; and Star Trek: Action! Their additional titles include Monk: The Official Episode Guide and The 4400 Companion. As a licensing director for Paramount Pictures, Paula was co-editor of the Pocket Books short-story series Star Trek: Strange New Worlds. During his career in film publicity, Terry authored The Last Samurai Official Companion. They live in southern Oregon with their two collies, Shadow and Mandy.

FOR MORE ON THESE AUTHORS:
Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Paula-M-Block
Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Terry-J-Erdmann

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the authors’ imaginations, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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ISBN 978-1-5011-1068-9

Table of Contents

- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Historian’s Note
- Prelude
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- About the Authors
- Copyright