I, the Constable
Author: Paula M. Block; Terry J. Erdmann
Date: 0101-01-01 00:00:00+00:00
Publisher: Pocket Star Books

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To Michael Okuda and Denise Okuda, whose combined depth of knowledge and love for Star Trek, Buckaroo Banzai, and all things canine never ceases to amaze, delight, and inform

Historian’s Note

This story takes place in the year 2385, shortly after the events of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—The Long Mirage.

“Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid.”

—Raymond Chandler

“The Simple Art of Murder”

Chapter 1

My dear Nerys,

I miss you.

Is that an odd thing to say? We were together two days ago. Prior to that, we were separated for many months. Why is it that I feel your absence more keenly now?

I’m afraid I still don’t understand emotions.

This afternoon, Chief O’Brien explained to me that when humans are separated from their loved ones, they often send messages back and forth in text format. I’m not sure how that differs from a recorded message, other than the obvious fact that it takes longer—but the Chief assured me it is more personal, perhaps even . . . romantic. A window into the mind.

I don’t know about that. I do know that the spiritual retreat you’re on likely will prevent you from seeing or listening to a message immediately. Still, I confess to feeling happy that this proxy of me will be waiting for you when you are ready to receive it.

As you predicted, Captain Ro has offered me quarters at Deep Space 9 for as long as I wish. She told me that the people on the station think of me as family—an odd sentiment, but not unwelcome. Oh—and she gave me that package you sent. Thank you for saving my bucket all these years. It is good to have something familiar here on the new station.

Bureaucracy within the Federation is much as I remember. Which is to say, nothing related to the status of those Dominion émigrés I told you about is likely to happen quickly. I suspect someone on the Federation Council decided to sit on Starfleet’s request that I serve as the unofficial liaison to the group. No one is on the same page about how to handle the situation, and no one wants to be blamed for taking the wrong step. So until they all come to some sort of consensus, it would seem that I am going to have a bit of time on my hands.

And you know how much I enjoy wasting time.

I’ve asked the chief to provide me with some reading material to fill the time. I enjoyed those Mike Hammer novels of his years ago—I’m sure you remember me talking about them. Hammer is quite a compelling character. Visceral. Highly physical. A vivid example of pre-Federation humanity. The chief assures me that he has more of those tales written by Mickey Spillane, and quite a few titles by other authors in the same vein—

Sensing a familiar presence standing in front of him, Odo paused and looked up from his padd.

“Can I do something for you, Quark?”

“I was just wondering,” the bartender said, “when you were planning on buying a drink. This table is reserved for paying customers.”

Odo looked around the near-empty bar. “You don’t seem to have an overabundance of paying customers at the moment.”

The Ferengi’s lips twisted in annoyance. “Happy hour starts at seventeen hundred,” he said pointedly. “Then there’ll be lots of customers, all looking for tables. So are you going to order a drink or—”

“You know I don’t drink, Quark.”

“Of course I know you don’t drink. And frankly, I don’t care if you pour it into one ear and out the other. I’m just trying to earn a living. This table is valuable real estate. So you can either buy a drink or rent the space. Maybe you’d prefer that.” The Ferengi whipped a padd out of his pocket. “Let’s see. It’s a small table. At two slips per square centimeter . . . divided by amount of time occupied . . . plus wear and tear . . .”

Odo sighed. “Fine, Quark. Bring me a Bajoran ale.”

“Coming right up,” said Quark, a toothy smile spreading across his face as he strode across the room. “Frool! Get the man a frosty mug of Bajoran ale.”

The Ferengi slipped behind the counter and returned to the conversation he’d been having with an extremely attractive customer. “Now, as I was saying before business matters called me away . . .” He leaned closer to the busty female, noting that her skin was the creamy blue color of beetle puree. “You’d be very popular. We’ve never had an Andorian bartender here at Quark’s Public House, Café, Gaming Emporium, Holosuite Arcade, and Ferengi Embassy—oh! Did I neglect to mention that this establishment is also the Ferengi Embassy to Bajor? A lot of important people pass through these doors every day. And,” he added, lowering his voice to a husky whisper, “I’m sure that in a very short time you could upgrade to a more exciting position—say, handling one of the dabo tables. You certainly seem talented enough to master the game. Think of the tips you’d make.”

“I already told you,” the woman said, leaning back just a bit, her pert antennae arching away from Quark in a similar maneuver. “I enjoy working on my cruise ship. What could this place offer me that I won’t find traveling to exotic ports all over the galaxy?”

“Ask anyone,” Quark persisted. “Living at Deep Space 9 is unique. The people you meet, the sights, the opportunities for romance—”

“Um, Boss—” The voice came from behind him.

“Later,” snapped Quark.

“Sorry, Boss, but it’s important—”

Quark spun around to see Hetik, the Bajoran dabo boy, a look of concern on his handsome face. “What are you doing away from your table?” the Ferengi snapped.

“Call for you,” Hetik responded. “It’s Rom. I mean, the nagus. He says it’s urgent.”

Quark rolled his eyes. To Rom, urgent could mean anything from his daughter Bena’s school recital to the collapse of the Ferengi Futures Exchange.

Turning back to the beautiful Andorian with an apologetic smile, Quark said, “Don’t go away, sweetheart.” Then he stomped off toward his office.

“Brother!” the nagus’s image blurted out as soon as Quark came into view. “I just got a call from the Ferengi Futures Exchange!”

Quark gasped, visibly shaken. Had he suddenly become clairvoyant? “The FFE?” he said, feeling for his chair and slowly sitting down. “I . . . I can’t believe it.”

“Believe what?” responded Rom, a look of bewilderment clouding his expression.

“That . . . that the Exchange could go under so quickly. The last time I looked, the stock inventory was stable and—”

“What? The Exchange has collapsed? Where did you hear that? Nobody told me!” Now Rom was panicking. “I should have known. I’m the nagus. I should know about financial catastrophes before they happen! Before anyone else finds out! I could wind up in the Vault of Eternal Destitution for not—”

The grand nagus of Ferenginar was hyperventilating now, his face an unattractive shade of burnt umber. Quark suddenly realized that the conversation had taken a wrong turn. “Rom,” he said. “ROM! Calm down! What in Gint’s name did you call me about?”

Rom blinked and tried to speak, but nothing came out, his rapid breathing making conversation impossible.

Quark tried again, speaking very slowly. “Why did the FFE call you, Rom?”

At last Rom spoke. “They—they called about our uncle Frin.”

“Frin?” Quark echoed. “Frin, the one who owns a chain of thirty taverns—that Frin?”

Rom nodded. “The chief broker called to inform me that Uncle Frin’s vacuum-desiccated remains have been listed on the Exchange—”

“Frin is dead?” Quark said, coming to the only logical conclusion.

“So it seems,” responded Rom. “The broker wants to know if we’d like to purchase some discs of the remains.”

Quark knew that it was traditional on Ferenginar for family to purchase some of the deceased’s remains as a sign of respect, particularly if the deceased was a successful businessman. Frin certainly was that—in fact, his status as the most successful purveyor of fermented millipede juice on the planet made him the envy of his competitors—but purchasing his desiccated remains was the last thing on Quark’s mind.

“Frin is . . . dead?” Quark repeated, his features scrunching together tightly as his brain went into overdrive.

“Brother?” Rom said, attempting to draw his attention. “What about the discs?”

Quark shook his head and his eyes once again focused on Rom’s image on the screen. “Forget about the discs,” he said. “What about the taverns? What’s happening to them?” The bartender’s mind was racing now. “Frin had only one sibling: our father, Keldar. And he didn’t have any children. That should mean that Keldar’s sons are the legal inheritors of his properties, right? And that’s us.”

On the monitor, Rom’s expression was curiously evasive, and an uncomfortable tension enhanced the growing silence. “Um,” the younger brother offered at last, “that’s complicated.”

“Why is it complicated?” Quark asked. “ ‘Wives serve, brothers inherit’—that’s the 139th Rule. It goes to the nearest male relatives. And that’s still us, right?”

“Um, the 139th Rule has been . . . well . . . amended,” Rom muttered.

“Amended? When did that happen?”

“Recently. Like, in the past month. And it hasn’t been highly publicized on Ferenginar. The amendment says—” Rom picked up a padd that was lying in front of him so that he could recite it accurately. “It says, ‘Henceforth, wives will be allowed to inherit, provided their marital contract is active—that is, not expired or ruled invalid—at the time of their husband’s demise.’ ”

“No!” Quark gasped. “That’s impossible! The Rules of Acquisition are inviolable! They have been since Grand Nagus Gint created them ten thousand years ago!”

“That’s true. But they are amendable under the Bill of Opportunities,” Rom said, actually managing to sound, for the moment at least, nagusorial. “We learned about it in school. The Bill was considered necessary because a couple of Gint’s, uh, ‘quirkier’ edicts could result in any number of awkward situations.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Quark interjected. “Everybody makes jokes about the 113th Rule: ‘Always have sex with the boss.’ ”

“Well, think about what the business world would be like if Grand Nagus Gezunt hadn’t come up with an amendment for that rule,” Rom said, now feeling sure of himself. “It explained that ‘sex with the boss’ could loosely be interpreted as ‘Always keep the boss happy.’ ”

“Gezunt did that a thousand years after Gint died,” Quark interjected. “What fool amended the 139th rule just in time to ruin my inheritance?” But he didn’t really need to ask. “It was you, wasn’t it? That’s what comes of your spending so much time with our conniving mother!”

“It wasn’t Moogie,” Rom protested. “Leeta—”

“Ah, the other conniver! I knew it was one of the two of them!”

“It wasn’t conniving,” Rom responded. “It’s just . . . Leeta was saying how sad it is that Ishka wasn’t entitled to inherit any of Keldar’s property after he died. Not that he had very much. But think about it! Most of it went to Frin. Well, Zek’s not going to live forever, and Leeta worried what would happen to Ishka after Zek dies. Would Krax inherit everything and leave Ishka to beg on the street?

“And then she started to worry what would happen to her and little Bena after I die,” Rom continued. “Would my estate go to my brother or my son? Would she have to depend on the kindness of relatives? I mean, Nog is a good son, but you’re not exactly the most generous person in the quadrant, so what could she expect from you? And the more I thought about it, the more I worried. What would they all do?”

Quark gnashed his teeth. “With my luck, they’d probably all come here to sponge off my inheritance!” he said, picturing his quarters crowded with his mother, his sister-in-law, and his niece.

Rom sat a little straighter in his chair, refusing to let his brother cow him. “So, yes—I amended it. But only a little. The nagus has the right to do that, so long as he can establish that it’s for the benefit of the Ferengi Alliance. Which it is. And I proved that. So as of now, Ishka will be eligible to inherit whatever wealth Zek has accrued since the two of them were married—while Krax will receive the rest of Zek’s estate. That will keep everybody happy. And Leeta and Bena will inherit my estate.” As he talked, Rom broke into a broad smile. It all made perfect sense to him.

“Wait a minute,” Quark said. “What happened to the part about ‘brothers inherit’? Did you eliminate that entirely?”

“No, of course not. But brothers would inherit after wives and children—” Rom’s smile faltered just a bit at Quark’s expression.

“Why after?” the bartender barked.

Rom winced. “Be-be-because brothers have more opportunities to earn, even with all the changes in suffrage and the right to work that Zek enacted. You know as well as I do that not everyone adheres to the new rules, Brother. Fe-males need a . . . a . . . little advantage.” Rom felt himself rushing his words, reflecting that everything had sounded so much more convincing when Leeta was explaining it to him. “Anyway, you would still inherit, Brother. You’d just be standing . . . a little further down the line.”

Quark’s head was spinning. “I can’t believe you were able to enact this change without the general public demanding your head.”

“Most of the public, uh, they don’t know about it yet,” Rom admitted. “They��d have had to attend some of those monthly sessions of the Ferengi Economic Congress of Advisors. But the public considers those gatherings so boring that hardly anyone but the advisors come. If they had come, they’d have heard me submit the amendment, and deal with all of the concessions and compromises that it took to get the FECA to agree to it. Leeta was very proud of my arguments.”

Quark knew he’d be disappointed by the answer, but he asked anyway. “What concessions?”

“The amendment won’t work retroactively,” Rom answered. “It’s only effective going forward.” He sighed. “I was kind of sorry about that. Because the wives whose husbands have already died are still out of luck. Moogie will only get Zek’s odds and ends; she still won’t inherit Keldar’s stuff. I guess that’s passed to Frin’s wife.”

Quark’s dream of owning a chain of popular taverns across Ferenginar was fading fast. “You idiot!” he screeched. “You’ve destroyed my empire!”

“Don’t give up yet, Brother,” Rom said in a placating tone. “Maybe Frin’s wife doesn’t want the taverns. Lots of old-fashioned fe-males don’t want to be in charge of a business. Maybe she’s like . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Like your ex-wife, Prinadora?” guessed Quark.

“Yeah,” Rom said a little sadly. “She let her father handle every single financial transaction in her life.”

“Well,” Quark sighed, “it doesn’t really matter what kind of fe-male Frin’s wife is. She’s still going to inherit those thirty taverns.”

“But if she’s not a businesswoman, maybe she’ll be open to selling them to someone else, particularly someone in the family,” Rom suggested tentatively. “And if she doesn’t know how to properly assess their value . . . well, no one’s better at negotiating a deal than you, Brother.”

“Flattery won’t make me forget that you’re the one who caused this mess,” growled Quark. He frowned, then quickly made up his mind about his next move. “All right,” he said. “I’m coming out to Ferenginar.”

“Great,” Rom responded. “Do you want me to contact—”

“Don’t do anything! Just wait for me. I’m going to see if I can salvage a profit from this nightmare.”

Quark couldn’t believe how close—yet so far—he was from becoming the magnate of a vast franchise. But maybe, just maybe, he could turn the odds in his favor. Storming out of his office, he told Frool to contact Treir at the bar on Bajor. “Tell her to get up here now. I’m going away for a few days!” he yelled. He glanced over at the luscious Andorian, still seated at the counter. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “Maybe next time.”

And then he was gone.

Odo paused once again, looking up from his padd as Quark scurried past him and out of the bar. For nearly a full second he allowed himself to ponder what might have motivated the Ferengi’s hasty exit. Then, deciding he really didn’t care, he shrugged and went back to his letter to Kira Nerys.

With the exception of Doctor Bashir, most of your old friends are present and accounted for on the station—even Vic Fontaine. For a while it didn’t look like Nog would ever be able to retrieve him from the simulator, but the good news is that his program has been fully restored and they’ve installed him in one of Quark’s new holosuites. Same old Vic, but with a few minor changes to the holographic infrastructure. Perhaps the next time you visit the station, we can pay him a visit.

As for Quark—you didn’t think I was going to leave him out, did you? Quark is . . . well, he’s Quark. Or Ambassador Quark, as he refers to himself whenever he thinks it will impress someone. In either case, he’s as annoying as ever. And based on what I just witnessed a few minutes ago, I would say that he’s run smack into some sort of typical Quark problem.

Ah—Hetik has just informed me that Quark is on his way to Ferenginar. No other details, just that he plans to be away for a few days.

It may be my imagination, but the atmosphere in the bar has suddenly become much more relaxed . . .

Chapter 2

It’s the same dive as always, the shape-shifter thought, a place where a guy can get a drink or a dame, or win or lose a fortune.

But something about it had changed.

Odo paused in the entranceway to Quark’s Public House and looked inside curiously. He’d been reading selections from O’Brien’s well-stocked library for three days, and while he would be the first to admit that immersing oneself in pulp fiction tended to give one a rather shady impression of the universe, something strange definitely was going on inside Quark’s. The refreshing calm that had permeated the bar following the barkeep’s departure was long gone. In its place was a pervasive sense of anxiety, as if the whole establishment were teetering on the brink of calamity.

Or at least the employees were.

They’re jittery as all get-out, he thought. Discoordinated as a bunch of Teirenian ants that have lost their queen.

As Odo watched, Quark’s normally well-trained staff of Ferengi waiters hustled back and forth through the crowded main room, narrowly avoiding one another as they delivered drinks to customers. But something was off in their performance. They’d solicit an order, then return with something completely different. Or they’d forget the customer entirely, rushing off to wait on somebody else while the original drink sat unattended at the pickup station.

It wasn’t just the waitstaff.

A busboy shot out of the kitchen and promptly dumped a tray of glassware onto the floor with a loud crash that likely would reverberate through his pay for weeks. Horrified, he stepped backward—smack into a serving stand—and knocked over the large pitcher of water that he’d placed there just a few moments earlier.

Over in the games area, a player won at dabo—just a small payout, nothing unusual. But then, within minutes, a second player won—with an even bigger payout than the first.

And then a third.

M’Pella, Quark’s longest-serving dabo girl, gasped in alarm. “Oh . . . uh . . . dabo?” she called out tentatively, reluctantly offering latinum strips to the winners. Odo knew that she was supposed to occasionally let the house lose a round in order to keep up customer morale. But Odo had never seen her lose two in a row, let alone three. M’Pella looked flustered.

She isn’t paying attention to the game, Odo observed. Strange.

In the center of the room, Treir, the spectacular Orion bar manager who usually oversaw the Bajoran branch of Quark’s small empire, was a virtual blur of activity as she attempted to fulfill the needs of all the humanoids clustered at the main serving area.

This, too, was odd. Treir typically was a study in calm, measured efficiency. True, there were quite a few customers tonight, but not enough to—

He suddenly became aware of Miles O’Brien standing next to him. “Chief,” Odo acknowledged him, adding a perfunctory nod.

“Odo,” responded the ruddy-faced human. He offered the Changeling a padd he was carrying. “I loaded up a couple more of my favorites,” he said. “Some Chandler and some Hammett. And I completely forgot about . . .” His voice trailed off as his attention was drawn to the same kinetic tableau as Odo. “What the devil is going on in there?” he said.

“I’m not really sure,” Odo responded. “The employees all seem rather . . . distracted.”

“ ‘Distracted’?” repeated O’Brien. “That’s an understatement. This place is as charged with chaotic energy as the atmosphere of Galorndon Core.”

Odo had no frame of reference about Galorndon Core, but he saw no reason to doubt O’Brien’s correlation. He was about to change the subject and ask the chief a question about Raymond Chandler, when Broik rushed in from the Plaza and barged through the knot of customers at the counter. He waved at Treir in a clear attempt to grab her attention, but the Orion shook her head, signaling that she was uninterested in granting him that attention. Undeterred, Broik’s mouth began moving, while Treir continued to ignore him. The bar was too noisy to make out the majority of Broik’s words from across the room, but Odo heard the name “Quark” mentioned several times.

Spotting Broik, Frool made his way over to the counter and attempted to join in the discussion—or what would have been a discussion if Treir had been responding. Then M’Pella joined their ranks.

Now Odo could hear some actual phrases: “But nobody in the Hub has heard . . .”; “. . . it’s not like him . . .”; and “. . . shouldn’t we at least try . . .”

And then there was only Treir’s clear alto voice piercing the din: “I DON’T KNOW AND I DON’T CARE! JUST DO YOUR JOBS OR YOU’LL BE LOOKING FOR NEW ONES!”

O’Brien whistled softly through his teeth. “And I thought Keiko had a low boiling point,” he murmured sotto voce. “Well, think I’ll skip the nightcap this evening.” And he departed.

Odo glanced briefly at the list of titles in the newly loaded padd, then morphed a padd-sized “pocket” within the facsimile of a Bajoran tunic that he was wearing. He entered the bar.

“Good evening, Treir,” he addressed the Orion.

She looked up from the drink she was mixing. “Good evening, Odo,” she responded evenly.

“I can’t help noticing that things in here seem a little . . .” He gestured briefly at the nervous employees.

“A little what?” she inquired.

“A little . . . off-kilter,” Odo finished.

“Nothing’s off—” She was interrupted by the sound of a crash from the kitchen area. She sighed, then said, “What can I do for you, Odo?”

“I just wondered if something was wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said. Then, noticing Broik and Frool hovering nearby, watching her intently, she said it again, louder, for their benefit.

Odo remained at the counter, waiting for her to continue. And at last she said, “Quark’s just late getting back from Ferenginar, that’s all. No big surprise.”

“How late?” Odo asked.

“Couple days,” she said. “Obviously he’s having a great time with His-Brother-the-Nagus and he isn’t in a hurry to get back to us.”

“Really? That doesn’t sound like Quark.”

“Oh no?” Treir said, eyes flashing. “I think it sounds just like Quark. Never thinks of anyone other than himself. Can’t be bothered to update people. It’s not like I have a life of my own and a bar to run on Bajor.”

“So you don’t think something may have happened to detain him?”

“Like what? An invitation from some pretty girls to go swimming in a big pool of latinum?” She shrugged, the action causing the thin shoulder strap of her formfitting dress to slide down a viridescent shoulder. “Honestly, Odo—I don’t know. And I don’t really care. All I know is that he’s going to pay me plenty of overtime when he finally gets back here.”

Suddenly she looked past Odo and broke into a genuine smile. “Hi there, Commander Nog,” she said. “Ready for a cold root beer?”

Odo turned to see the station’s assistant chief engineer hop up onto a barstool. The young Ferengi was blushing slightly. Odo assumed that he found the Orion woman attractive; he knew that most of the males on the station did.

“Not right now,” Nog responded. “I’m still on duty. I just stopped in to see if you’ve heard anything new about my uncle.”

Treir shook her head. “Like I’ve been telling everyone: I haven’t heard a peep. I mean, if your dad doesn’t know anything, I don’t know what to tell you.”

That caught Odo’s attention. He turned to Nog. “Rom doesn’t know where Quark is, either?”

The engineer shook his head. “He told me that he saw Quark the day that he arrived on Ferenginar,” Nog said. “Quark told him he was going to do some investigating. After that—nothing.”

“I see,” Odo said. “I don’t suppose you know what he was investigating?”

Nog shook his head again. “My dad didn’t say.” He slid off the barstool. “Well, gotta get back to work. I’ll be around later for that root beer,” he called to Treir as he left.

Odo considered asking the Orion a few more questions, but she’d already moved to the other end of the bar. Clearly their conversation had ended, at least as far as she was concerned.

He was about to sit down at an unoccupied table, when his combadge warbled. “Hub to Odo.”

Recognizing the voice of DS9’s executive officer Jefferson Blackmer, Odo responded: “Go ahead, Commander.”

“Captain Ro would like to speak with you. She’s in her office.”

“Acknowledged,” Odo responded. He didn’t bother to ask what the topic of discussion was going to be. He suspected he already knew.

Captain Ro Laren was pacing. “So he hasn’t attempted to contact you?” she said without slowing her pace.

“No, he hasn’t,” Odo responded. “But truthfully, Captain, don’t you think Quark would be more likely to contact you if he were in trouble?”

“No, not really,” she said.

Something in the way she tossed off the remark caught Odo’s attention. Her statement was matter-of-fact, but from his point of view, it came out sounding just a little . . . sad. Before he could decide whether or not to comment, however, Ro resumed talking, her tone now all business.

“The problem is, he doesn’t seem to have contacted anyone in the past few days. He filed a flight plan for a roundtrip to Ferenginar, and he’s obviously overdue. I spoke to Mister Haeni, the proprietor at Wormhole-Rent-A-Shuttle. Quark rented his transportation there, but he hasn’t bothered to follow up to extend the rental period.” She paused to catch Odo’s gaze. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

Odo nodded. “Late fees. And Quark despises late fees. Unless he’s the one charging them.”

“Exactly,” Ro said, mouth set in a frown.

“Did Haeni bother to ping the shuttle, to see where it is?”

“He did. But it only confirms that the shuttle Quark rented is parked somewhere in Ferenginar’s capital city. So it would seem that he’s still on the planet.”

“Or at least the shuttle is,” Odo noted.

Finally, Ro seated herself at her desk. “I’ve spoken to Rom a couple times. He’s quite worried.”

Odo shrugged. “Well, that doesn’t mean much. Rom is always worried about something, usually without cause. Knowing Quark, he’s probably just chasing a lead on some questionable boondoggle. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon.”

The captain’s expression remained calm; her hands, however, betrayed some deeper emotions. Her fingers moved constantly—tapping against the desk, fiddling with a padd stylus, running idly through her dark, shoulder-length hair. Then, suddenly aware that Odo was watching her, she folded her hands together. “I don’t know, Odo,” she admitted. “I just have a weird feeling about this. It really is out of character for him.” She looked up at him, her dark eyes hopeful. “And I wondered . . . since you’re not tied up at the moment . . .”

“Ah,” he said, catching on. “You’re wondering if you could persuade me to look into it.”

She smiled tentatively. “I’d consider it a big favor, Odo.”

He considered the request. She wasn’t the type to ask a favor lightly. And it was true he wasn’t doing anything at the moment. “All right,” he said. “I can fly out there and—”

“Why don’t you use one of the station runabouts? That way, if his rental is damaged, you’ll have transportation for the two of you. The Rio Grande is available. Docking bay eight.”

Odo nodded and looked down at his nondescript tunic. “Well, if I’m conducting an official investigation, I suppose I ought to dress for the occasion,” he said. His humanoid form rippled, and suddenly he was standing before the captain wearing his old Bajoran constable’s uniform.

For the first time, Ro broke into a smile. Odo noted that it looked good on her.

“Thank you, Odo,” she said. “I know if anyone can find him, you can.”

“Oh, I’ll find him, all right,” he replied. “The only question is whether he wants to be found.”

Chapter 3

My dear Nerys,

You’ll be happy to hear that the residents of DS9 have found something for me to do in my “spare time.”

Quark is missing. I have been dispatched to Ferenginar to look for him.

I’m not sure what I’ll find when I arrive. Since the subject is Quark, I anticipate encountering some sort of illicit activity.

Beyond that, I hesitate to speculate.

At the moment, my runabout is on autopilot. I have spent a good portion of this commute reading selections from O’Brien’s library. I am once again struck by the language employed by these literary protagonists, and the forthright way in which they conduct their affairs. How nice it would be to deal with suspects in any manner I chose, the way that those characters do, with no thought as to consequences or retribution.

Foolish as it may sound, I can’t help thinking that these fictional investigators—dicks, detectives, and what-have-you—lead a far more colorful, and perhaps more satisfying, life than I ever experienced when I was still a constable.

The moment Odo stepped into the gilt-laden Nagal Residence, Rom and Leeta set upon him like a pair of hungry swamp salamanders spotting a fat slug. He knew they were only looking for information, but he didn’t like being boxed in. They’re standing so close that I could easily discern what they had for lunch. That is, assuming I possessed a sense of smell . . .

Odo took a small step backward. He was about to suggest that they all relax and take a seat somewhere, when Ishka, the matriarch of the family, burst into the room.

“I came as soon as I heard you were here,” the elder female said, pushing her son and daughter-in-law out of the way to stand toe-to-toe with the Changeling. “Well, as soon as I could get Zekkie down for his nap,” she corrected herself with a fond chuckle. Laying her wrinkled hand on Odo’s arm, she looked up into his eyes. “Have you figured out where he is yet?”

Odo took a larger step back, effectively severing physical contact with Ishka. “As I was just telling the nagus, I haven’t had an opportunity to investigate yet,” he said. “All I’ve managed to do so far is check the location of Quark’s rented shuttle. It’s in the parking structure across the plaza from here. I presume that’s where he left it three days ago. Now, what I need to know from you is the reason why Quark came here in the first place.”

The occupants of the Residence all began talking at once—even Ishka, although Rom already had mentioned that she hadn’t been present when Quark arrived. The former constable pointed at Rom and said—loudly—“Please let the nagus tell me.”

And Rom began talking. But he’d barely gotten out a sentence when the two women began again. Mike Hammer never has this problem, Odo thought as he refrained from shouting at them. But then, I do have some compensatory skills.

And with that, he inconspicuously modified his ears, reshaping their internal structure into organs identical to those of a Baneriam hawk, a creature known for its preternaturally keen sense of hearing. It allowed him to sort through the jumble of voices and comprehend what each person in the room was saying.

An extremely rich relative had died, an uncle named Frin, brother to Ishka’s deceased husband, Keldar. Quark, being Quark, was more interested in the line of inheritance than in mourning. At Quark’s suggestion, Rom began to dig into Frin’s fiduciary footprint. That’s when the brothers discovered that the old man had died with three wives.

As Odo listened to the trio’s three discrete through lines, a scenario began to coalesce within his mind, depicting the scene as it had played out a few days earlier.

“You see?” Rom said, pointing out the information on the monitor. “Here they are—three active marital contracts. And none of them were terminated prior to his death!”

“Three?” Leeta commented. “Is that even legal?”

Rom and Quark shrugged. “It’s not very common,” Quark remarked, leaning toward the screen. “I mean, who would want to listen to more than one wife?”

“No one I know,” Rom mumbled, followed by a loud “Ow!” as Leeta punched his shoulder.

“But is it legal?” she repeated.

“Well, bigamy per se isn’t illegal on Ferenginar,” Rom stated, “since there’s always some way to skirt traditional prohibitions—if one is good enough at contracts, that is. See this document? Frin has defined each of his three marital contracts as ‘a limited partnership, with all the expected duties and responsibilities of what is otherwise defined as a spouse, but with ultimate recompense apportioned by the ultimate number of participants in said partnership.’ ”

“That’s one way to do it,” admitted Quark.

“What does that mean?” Leeta asked, sounding confused.

“It means that each of Frin’s wives will inherit only a third of his estate,” Quark answered, his brow wrinkled in thought.

“You know, I think it might be a good idea to invite them over here,” Rom suggested.

Ever the perfect hostess, Leeta suddenly perked up. “Ooooh—maybe a little dinner party. With lots of drinks. I could call that new caterer—”

Rom smiled at her. “Yes, that sounds perfect. A nice friendly evening with our bereaved relatives. We’d drink to Frin. Dear old Frin! And then we’d have a friendly conversation about what the ladies plan to do with the taverns. We’ll talk about how managing them will be so much trouble!” Rom added, turning to Quark, “And then you could offer to take the taverns off their hands, Brother!”

Quark stared at Rom in horror. “What? Are you crazy? Bring the three of them together? They might hate each other! Or worse, they might actually get along . . . and decide to conspire! Form an empire together! No! I have to keep them apart and deal with them separately!”

Quark headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Rom asked.

“To see Frin’s matrimonial partners—separately!”

“Do you want me to call ahead?”

“NO!” Quark shouted. “Don’t do anything until I get back!”

“Will you be back in time for dinner?” Leeta asked. “We’re having hasperat roll-ups with jellied gree-worm.”

Quark exited. Without a reply.

Leeta looked at Rom, mildly perturbed. Rom shrugged. “I’d take that as a ‘maybe,’ ” he said.

“Hmmm,” Odo rumbled when the cacophony of voices around him finally ceased. He glanced at Rom. “So the last thing Quark told you was that he was going to talk to Frin’s wives, to see whether they were interested in giving up—selling, that is—their inheritance.”

Rom nodded. “But I’ve been in touch with the wives since then. They all said that Quark stopped by, but then he left. They don’t have any idea where he might be now.”

“They may claim to know nothing of Quark’s whereabouts,” Odo noted. “But denial or not, they’re my only leads. I think I’ll pay each of them a visit.”

“Start with Chartreux,” Ishka suggested. “The last time I saw her—at Keldar’s desiccation ceremony—she was Frin’s only wife. Old-fashioned and not very bright, but she seemed friendly. I have no idea about the others.”

Odo turned back to Rom. “Before I go, I’d like to modify my combadge so that I can send and receive local communications here on Ferenginar. It will allow you to contact me if you receive information about Quark’s whereabouts.”

“I can help with that,” Rom said eagerly. “What do you need?”

“Just the specs on a Ferengi communicator.”

“And maybe a diagram?” Rom suggested.

“It couldn’t hurt.”

“How about if I include a visual tie-in?”

“Well, I’m not sure that I’ll need something like that—”

“I’ll do it anyway,” Rom said with a grin. “It won’t take any longer. It’s an idea I’ve been playing with and this would be a good test.”

Odo was puzzled. “How would that even work? I’ll be wearing it.”

Rom uttered the longest sentence Odo had ever heard the Ferengi speak—something about a miniaturized holographic circuit, a short-range force field, a pinpoint camera . . . and many other components that the Changeling had never heard of. He reminded the nagus that he couldn’t configure the device if he didn’t understand it.

“Don’t worry—you will. It’ll be easy. I’ll show you everything.” And Rom rushed excitedly from the room to gather the information the Changeling would need.

Odo couldn’t help but notice the immediate change in the nagus’s demeanor now that he was in familiar territory. Engineering was his forte—not politics.

Ishka studied Odo curiously. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you just gave him your combadge to tinker with?”

“No, not really,” he replied. “I can do it myself. I just need information so I can visualize the construction, and then synthesize the right elements and manipulate a few molecules. Shouldn’t take long.”

Ishka appeared unconvinced. “But—”

“He doesn’t have to take it off to fix it, Moogie,” explained Leeta.

“He doesn’t?”

Leeta leaned over and whispered into one of her mother-in-law’s lobes: “He’s a shape-shifter, Moogie.”

“Oh,” Ishka said. Followed by “Oh! Of course! Silly me!” as comprehension flooded her wrinkled features. “That’s very convenient, Odo! What a shame you can’t teach that skill to others. You could make a considerable profit.”

Odo tilted his head to one side. “Yes,” he said, straight-faced. “That’s a real pity, isn’t it?”

Chapter 4

Wife Number One lived in the Exchequer Suites, a posh, assisted-living complex located in the capital city’s “Latinum Lifestyle” retirement district. After Odo identified himself as an investigator on assignment for Starfleet, the receptionist (for a slip of latinum) pointed out a lift that would take him directly to the penthouse of the main building. The lift, the receptionist informed him, would cost an additional slip. Odo nodded in acceptance, grateful that he’d had the foresight to bring a small supply of native currency for just such requirements.

When the doors of the lift parted at the top floor, Odo flinched at the sight of the widow Chartreux, decked out in a traditional Ferengi mourning bonnet—and nothing else. Suddenly he remembered Ishka’s description of Chartreux: “old-fashioned.” Meaning she probably doesn’t own a stitch of clothing besides the hat, he thought.

“Come,” she said with a broad smile, beckoning him from the entrance to the suite. Odo anticipated her stepping back when he got to the doorway, but no—she just stood there, smiling. With a grunt of understanding, he handed her a slip. Still smiling, she cleared her throat meaningfully, and after a brief pause, Odo added an additional slip.

Chartreux nodded gratefully. “My penthouse is my penthouse,” she said.

Odo nodded, then added the perfunctory visitor’s reply: “As are its contents.”

“And the homeowners’ fees are murder,” she said, explaining the additional charge.

Chartreux led him into the spacious living room and seated herself on a cozy loveseat. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said.

Odo remained standing in the center of the room. “I’m quite comfortable,” he assured her.

Chartreux chuckled and patted the adjacent cushion on the loveseat. “Don’t be silly. Sit and stay awhile. I don’t get many visitors.” She leaned forward and gave him a friendly wink. “It doesn’t cost extra.”

Feeling more than a little uncomfortable, Odo acquiesced and squeezed in next to her. He preferred to look his interview subjects in the eye when he questioned them—not the ear.

But as he shot a glance over at her, he realized that he couldn’t even see that. He was staring directly into her mourning bonnet’s crisp black ruffles.

“Nice hat,” he said as a way of easing into the conversation.

“Thank you! I like to think Frin would have appreciated it. Oh, can I get you some tea? I still have some snacks that were prepared for the desiccation ceremony. Very tasty! And prechewed, of course.”

“No, thank you,” he said. “I’m here to investigate the disappearance of your late husband’s nephew Quark.”

“What? Quark is missing?” Chartreux jerked around to face him, and Odo caught a glimpse of her rheumy lavender eyes. “How terrible,” she said. “He was here just the other day to pay his respects.”

“Yes, that’s what I was led to understand,” Odo said. “Could you tell me about the visit?”

Her broad expanse of brow furrowed, causing the bonnet to wiggle just a bit. “Well, he was very polite. He told me how much he’d always admired my husband, and that he wished he could have spent more time with him. While my husband was alive, I mean.”

Odo nodded patiently. “And?” he prodded after she fell silent.

“I’m trying to remember the important parts,” she said. “I don’t want to bore you. You’re sure you won’t have tea?”

“No, thank you,” he said again. “Don’t worry about boring me. Don’t try to filter your memories. Just . . . let them flow,” he instructed, gesturing with his fingers in a way that he hoped suggested “flowing.”

Chartreux stared at his fingers for a moment. Then, ever so slowly at first, she let her memories spill forth. Odo closed his eyes as he listened, allowing himself to flow with them.

Quark was quite effusive about how his father, Keldar, had always looked up to his more successful brother, Frin. The bartender wandered around Chartreux’s living room as he talked, complimenting her taste in decorating, and studying pieces of furniture. Suddenly he paused in front of a divan.

“You know, we had a sofa exactly like this one when I was growing up,” he said, stroking the fabric idly.

Chartreux glanced over at the divan and wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Actually, I believe that particular piece came from Keldar’s estate,” she said. “I didn’t want it, but Frin insisted. I had to have it irradiated twice.”

Quark frowned in annoyance. He seemed on the verge of saying something uncharitable, but he apparently thought better of it, and moved on to another subject as he sat down to pour himself a cup of sweet larva tea.

“I can’t believe how well Frin managed all of those taverns,” he said. “I mean, it’s no easy job watching over the two that I have.” Quark turned and looked at her. “Auntie, I wonder . . . have you had a chance to think about what you’ll do with all those taverns?”

“Oh, I don’t know anything about managing them,” she admitted with a self-deprecating laugh. “Frinzy always said it was best to keep my pretty nose out of his business. Thank goodness I only need to worry about ten of them.” She sipped at her own cup.

“Ten?” Quark repeated, pretending to be surprised.

“The others belong to the others.”

“Others?”

“The other partners, of course. Frin’s other wives.”

“You, uh, you know that he had other wives?” Quark asked carefully.

“Yes, I do. And I have to admit, I didn’t like it at first. But after Frin explained the nature of the limited partnerships to me, I decided it made sense. It was just business.” She sighed as she remembered her husband. “I’m sure that he loved me best.”

“Of course he did,” agreed Quark. The conversation paused as the two slurped from their respective cups. Then Quark dropped his cup to its saucer with a loud clink. “Listen, Auntie—I’ve been thinking. Even ten taverns must seem like so much work to you! And it’s so unfair during what rightfully should be your . . . your . . . ‘Me Time’!”

“My what?” Chartreux asked.

“Your ‘Me Time’! Time to bask in your . . . uh . . . sequestration.”

“My what?” she asked.

“Your retirement, Auntie. Your golden time. You shouldn’t have to worry about business at this point in life, especially when you never did before. Frinzy was right. Time to give your pretty little nose a rest!” When she didn’t respond, Quark rushed forward with his pitch. “I, uh, I’d be willing to take those taverns off your nose . . . your hands, I mean. For a fair market price.” He smiled at her hopefully. “You’d never have to worry about them again.”

Chartreux didn’t say anything for a moment and Quark was concerned that he might have said too much too soon. But her smile returned, and she took his hand in hers. “Well, Nephew, as I said, I really don’t know anything about that.” She got up and led him to the door of the suite, which slid open at her approach. “That’s why I leave it all in Hilt’s hands.”

“Hilt?” echoed Quark. “Is that, uh, a new boyfriend?”

“My financial manager,” she said, giving Quark a gentle shove and closing the door in his face.

“Financial manager?” Odo echoed. “My understanding was that every Ferengi is raised to be his own financial manager.”

“That was only true for the men,” she said. “But now that wives can inherit . . . well, I’m not ashamed to admit that some of us just don’t have the wherewithal to wield wealth. And truthfully, I didn’t know what I was going to do. That’s why I was so happy when Hilt contacted me. He’s been a gift from the Blessed Exchequer!” A blush the color of ripe kumquats rose on her flabby cheeks. “And he is so good-looking!” she gushed.

“Indeed,” commented Odo. “I imagine that Quark was surprised that you were allowing this . . . Hilt . . . to handle your financial transactions.”

Chartreux shrugged. “I don’t really know how he felt about it. I didn’t see Quark after that.”

Rejecting a third offer of tea, Odo took his leave from the building and charted a path to the home of Yrena—a.k.a. Wife Number Two. He noted that it wasn’t far from the capital city center. For the moment, there was no rain—no frippering, no glebbening, not even any vinkling—just a dank, heavy fog, so he decided to walk.

Yrena’s small home was typical of the region, designed in what Odo had come to recognize as traditional Ferengi mammato-moderne style, with rounded mildew-resistant walls that facilitated runoff from the almost constant precipitation. As he got closer, Odo noticed a tall, sturdy-looking tower rising out of the back of the building. A glow from the frosted windows near the top streamed incongruously through the chill mist. The effect reminded Odo of an illustration of a lighthouse that he’d seen in a Bajoran children’s book.

The tower seemed an odd architectural affectation, considering the location. Nowhere near the waterfront, Odo thought as he arrived at the front door. Well, I suppose it keeps the low-flying air shuttles from hitting the building.

A female Ferengi came to the door, her nude body draped in a lacy mourning veil. She appeared to be several decades younger than Chartreux, although by no means youthful. Odo identified himself and promised that he wouldn’t take much of her time. Then he began asking questions.

Her answers were straightforward, albeit somewhat perfunctory.

Yes, she was Frin’s wife Yrena.

Yes, he could enter her home—after he paid her the requisite latinum.

Yes, her nephew Quark had paid her a visit a few days earlier.

Yes, he had asked her about the taverns that her husband left her.

No, she hadn’t agreed to any transactions related to the taverns. Truth be told, she didn’t know a darn thing about operating a tavern. “Thank goodness for Hilt!” she added.

“Hilt?” said Odo, recognizing the name. “Your—”

“My financial manager,” Yrena said. “A brilliant man. He says he knows just how to make those taverns turn a profit to guarantee my future security.”

“Indeed,” commented Odo.

He wasted little time moving on to Wife Number Three, Weede. In her intricately constructed mourning bustle (Odo couldn’t begin to comprehend how she kept it on her derriere without any visible straps), she was the youngest of the wives. But while she apparently had a well-developed sense of fashion, she seemed just as flummoxed by finance as her more mature sister wives. She was open and friendly, eager to answer Odo’s questions. Yes, she’d met with Quark; yes, she had ten taverns; no, she’d had no idea what she could do with them until she’d met her darling financial manager, Hilt—

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Odo interrupted, “when exactly did you meet this . . . Hilt?”

“Just after I listed my shares of Frin’s remains on the Futures Exchange,” she responded cheerfully. “He found me! Perfect timing, right?”

“Perfect,” echoed Odo. “He sounds like a very clever man.” It wasn’t hard for the investigator to imagine where Quark had gone next. “You know, I think I’d like to meet Hilt. Do you have his contact information?”

Weede waddled into the next room, her bustle swaying, and returned with a digital business card. Odo touched it to the padd he was carrying, duplicating the information, then returned the card to Weede.

As he headed for the door, he felt Weede grab his arm. “You’re not from around here, are you?” she asked.

“What makes you say that?” Odo responded.

“You look so different! I mean, you look really weird but . . . I kind of like it!” She giggled. “You want to have dinner sometime?” She wiggled the bustle to demonstrate her interest.

Taken aback, Odo took a second to respond. Then: “I regret to say, madam, I don’t eat.”

And he was out the door.

Chapter 5

The heavy fog had turned to choritzing by the time Odo left Weede’s residence, so the shape-shifter waved down a for-hire ground-skimmer. Shaking off the rainwater from head to toe in a long, fluid movement, he climbed into the seat behind the Ferengi pilot. Speaking through the communication port, he read the address that he’d copied from Hilt’s digital card.

“I don’t go to that part of the city,” came the pilot’s voice from the port. And he triggered the rear door for Odo to exit.

Odo remained where he was. “Why not?” he asked.

“It’s very . . . uh, different over there,” the pilot responded.

“Different how?” the shape-shifter demanded.

“It’s on the other side of the river. Nobody spends on skimmers over there. I never find a return passenger, so I lose latinum every time I go there. When I go. Which I don’t.”

Odo contemplated this for a moment, then said. “I’ll pay for the round trip.”

“Not if I have to wait for you to finish your business. I won’t hang around in that part of the city. The people over there are . . . Well, they’re not like us. It’s like they’ve given up.”

“Given up . . . how?” Odo asked, leaning forward.

The driver just shook his head, as if he had nothing else to say.

Odo sighed. “Don’t worry,” he said, reaching into his internal “pouch” and pulling out a few latinum slips. He dropped them into the remittance slot. “You won’t have to wait. Just get me there, and I’ll find my own way back.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” the pilot muttered, and he fired up the vehicle.

It was the kind of neighborhood where the children likely would have been happy to play with even an unpopular toy like Dilb the Destitute, if only their parents had been affluent enough to buy one. Just one look at the street informed Odo that not every Ferengi harbored dreams of membership in the Entrepreneurs’ Club. Three-story buildings lined the narrow street, mostly contiguous, with an occasional narrow alley slicing through them. Some doorways were blocked by sagging security gates. Others appeared equally uninviting, despite the presence of inexpensive display signs hanging above, some hand-painted with Ferengi lexis that Odo didn’t recognize. Broken bottles and detritus too heavy for the rain to wash away lay scattered before most thresholds. An elderly Ferengi man bundled in a dung-colored raincoat popped out of an establishment, glanced at Odo nervously, and disappeared into the alley next door. No one else appeared. This was a neighborhood, Odo felt, where fathers worked with tools, children played inside, and mothers weren’t allowed to wear clothes, despite the changing norms.

He looked at the commercial building bearing Hilt’s address. Like those on either side, the stone structure had seen better decades. Or perhaps centuries. A drainage grate near the entrance was clogged, overwhelmed by the ever-present precipitation. He stretched his leg over a formidable puddle that blocked his way and surmised that, contrary to what his Ferengi acquaintances said about loving the constant moisture, these locals might find it less than inspiring.

Stepping through the slightly askew door, Odo saw Hilt’s name on a directory. Second floor, no lift. This “brilliant financial advisor” may not be as brilliant as Frin’s ex-wives say, he thought. As he climbed the stairs, he saw that the door at the top was ajar. Pushing it open, he walked into an anteroom with a desk, a chair, and a flickering digital poster promoting the hills surrounding Risa’s Temtibi Lagoon.

That’s odd, he thought. You wouldn’t think Ferengi enjoyed vacationing at one of the few places where it never rains. I’ll have to ask Quark . . .

When I find him.

He passed through the deserted room and into the office beyond.

The place was a mess, resembling what one of O’Brien’s detectives might have called “tossed.” Two chairs lay toppled on their sides, with a lamp and an overturned corner table leaning against them. A desk had been shoved out of place, one corner of it jammed against the back wall, and bric-a-brac, probably from the desktop, was scattered helter-skelter across the floor.

As Odo carefully stepped over the lamp, he spotted a hand and lace-cuffed wrist peeking out from behind the desk. Moving closer, he observed that the hand was attached to a body sprawled on the floor: a male Ferengi dressed in a shiny silvery-amber suit, the tone reminiscent of liquid latinum.

You must be Hilt, Odo thought. Or you used to be. He took note of a large hole that was burned into the middle of the man’s chest, apparently from a close-up weapon blast.

Odo didn’t have to touch the body to know the Ferengi was dead, and he certainly didn’t want to touch it. But he did need to search for clues that might indicate exactly what had happened. He raised the corpse just enough to peek underneath.

Nothing. And there’s no sign of a second body, no sign of smoldering physical remains that would be typical of complete disintegration. I’ll assume that Quark is still alive.

He looked through the desk’s drawers, and searched a tiny storage closet, hoping to find files. But there was no sign that Hilt had kept any. Odo postulated that he’d run his enterprise entirely on padds; many Ferengi did. The fact that none were in the office might be the most important clue he’d find. Someone clearly had reason to take them—either to learn something that Hilt knew, or to reclaim something that Hilt shouldn’t have known.

Looking about, he saw two additional posters and a framed document on the wall nearest the body. One poster promoted the “updated look” of Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet. The other offered another view of Risa. The document was a license issued by the Ferengi Board of Business Barons. This was worthy of greater attention. The date on the license indicated that it had been issued recently. And it listed both Hilt’s business address and his home address. Good to know, Odo thought as he locked the address into his memory.

A glittering item amidst the debris strewn on the floor caught his eye, and he leaned over to pick it up. It was a jeweled broach. He recognized it at once as one of Quark’s adornments, confirming that the bar owner had been here—and very likely was present during the melee.

Odo tried to imagine what had happened. Unfortunately, he saw too many possibilities to form a likely scenario. Perhaps Quark had been the unwitting witness to an attack on Hilt. If so, he may have been wounded and taken hostage by the killer. Or perhaps he was on the run from the killer. Neither of those possibilities pleased Odo.

Even more disturbing, he had to consider the possibility that Quark had gotten into an argument with Hilt and fired on him. Quark typically wasn’t prone to violence, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t the killer. So, again, he might be on the run.

Odo considered his next action. Clearly someone should contact the Ferengi authorities—but he didn’t really know which commission, or chamber, or council, or board, or delegation, or panel, or directorate would oversee a crime like this. He decided that it would be best to notify the nagus and let him get the wheels of justice spinning.

As he exited the disheveled office, Odo couldn’t help but be preoccupied by one thought:

Quark is in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.

Chapter 6

My dear Nerys,

You’ll recall that I speculated about encountering illicit activity in my search for Quark.

Well, I’ve encountered a body. No, it’s not Quark’s body. I couldn’t be that lucky.

The deceased is a Ferengi con man named Hilt. No sign of Quark in the vicinity, but I’m fairly certain he was present when Hilt suffered a “permanent ventilation problem”—as Mike Hammer would say—a nice neat hole burned into the middle of his chest, suggestive of a disruptor blast.

Because I’m not familiar with police customs on Ferenginar, I reported the murder to the nagus, who was shocked. Shocked.

What he wasn’t, however, was spurred into action.

What he needed, I realized, was motivation. So I grilled him about what efforts he’d enlisted so far to find his brother.

“Um, I called Captain Ro on the station,” he said.

“And?” I said.

“And I talked to you.”

“And?”

“Uh . . .” He made a pretense at thinking about it for a minute. “Um, that’s all.”

My patience was as thin as the mucus trail of a Denebian slime devil. It had been days since Quark disappeared, and his trail was growing colder every minute. I pushed Rom, asking if he’d bothered to contact the local authorities to let them know that Quark was missing.

I thought he was going to swallow his tongue.

“No, no, no!” he managed to choke out. “Quark wouldn’t appreciate that kind of attention! Right?” He threw a panicked glance to Leeta and Ishka. The ladies, who were as familiar with Quark’s personality as Rom, nodded in agreement.

I tried a different route. “Okay, how about the hospitals? Have you contacted them?”

Now Rom looked utterly confused. The idea had never occurred to him. “Why would Quark go to a . . . a hospital?”

“Considering the way I found Hilt,” I explained, “it might not have been a voluntary decision on Quark’s part.”

Silence. I took it as a “no” and moved on. “Have you checked—”

“The morgue?” Ishka blurted out. The others stared at her in horror.

“Well,” I said, “that’s not a bad guess, but I was going to ask if there was someplace on Ferenginar that he might use as a bolt hole.”

“A what?” Leeta asked.

“A hideout,” Ishka explained matter-of-factly.

I have no idea how she knew. Perhaps she’s been reading those Mike Hammer novels, too.

“A hideout?” Rom echoed. “What are you saying, Odo?”

“We know that Quark was going to see Hilt,” I replied. “And Hilt is dead.” I shrugged and let the assumptions fall where they may.

They all exchanged wide-eyed glances. They clearly didn’t know what to say, so I said it for them.

“Now would be a good time for you to contact your local law enforcement authorities.”

Chapter 7

With no active leads, Odo decided to investigate an inactive one: Hilt. The man’s home address had been listed on the business license in his office. And unlike the office address, it wasn’t on the wrong side of the river. It was just a short tram ride from the city center.

Trams, Odo discovered, were cheaper than skimmers. He found that out when he dropped a slip into the tram’s payment box and began to move toward the rear of the vehicle.

“Hey, smooth-face!” shouted the elderly Ferengi attendant. “You forgot your change!” The nearby passengers gasped. Clearly this was a serious breach of etiquette, if not a legal infraction.

“I’m . . . sorry,” Odo said, returning to the front. “It, uh, won’t happen again.” He extended his hand, palm up, toward the attendant, but the annoyed civil servant impatiently gestured at a slot on the side of the payment box. Odo obediently lowered his palm to the slot, and a handful of tiny gold-colored flecks slid from the box into his hand.

Seating himself nearby, he raised his palm to eye level and studied the flecks curiously. They resembled nothing so much as particles of confetti (he recalled a sample of confetti that Jake Sisko had once shown him—a souvenir, the boy said, of something called Mardi Gras). Yet they weighed substantially more.

“Snips,” commented the passenger seated across from him.

Odo looked up to see a male Bolian staring at him. “I beg your pardon?” the Changeling said.

“They’re called snips,” said the Bolian. “A thousand snips to the slip. The fare is only half a slip. Yeah, I didn’t know either, or I’d have picked up some half-slips at the currency exchange,” he added, pulling a similar handful of flecks from his pocket and showing it to Odo. “Of course, they charge half a slip to break a slip, so it’s hard to tell if you’re better off with exact change or lugging around a pocketful of gold-pressed pebbles all day.”

“Thank you for the explanation,” said Odo, creating an additional interior “pocket” in his uniform for the snips. “Snips. Hmmph. I hadn’t heard that particular denomination before.”

“Don’t think the more affluent crowd uses it much,” the blue humanoid responded.

“Can there possibly be any latinum in them?” Odo wondered out loud.

“Oh yeah,” the Bolian said, rising to his feet. “They call ’em drips,” he added with a chuckle as he moved toward the door. The tram stopped and he got off, Odo noticed, at the main station for several Federation embassies.

Minutes later, the tram arrived at the stop closest to Hilt’s residence. Odo walked through the main entrance of the nondescript apartment building and glanced around for anything identifiable as a manager’s office. But the doors were marked only with Ferengi numerals. At the moment, he was the sole person in the public area of the building.

So much for asking someone to grant me entry.

Time, however, was of the essence, so he walked down the corridor, studying the numerals. When he found the apartment he was looking for, he allowed his body to revert to its natural gelatinous state, and he oozed under Hilt’s front door.

Ahhhhh.

It was relaxing to let go of his solid state. He’d been holding it since he arrived on the planet some eight hours earlier, but he had plenty of time before he actually needed to regenerate. And anyway, there was little he could investigate as a puddle of goo on the floor.

Returning to his humanoid form, he began exploring Hilt’s residence. It didn’t take long to conclude that Hilt hadn’t been the type to bring work home. There was no home office, and nothing to suggest that he maintained digital records of anything, either business or personal.

In the bedroom, however, Odo found a collection of framed holophotos of the women in Hilt’s life: a gaggle of Ferengi widows—most of them old and shriveled, but a few as young as Weede—posing provocatively in various items of clothing. Blowing kisses, delivering their best “come hither” look. All quite obviously infatuated. It was easy to speculate on how Hilt got his clients: he romanced and then fleeced them.

Most of the ladies wore just one racy item, like a fancy belt or a pair of high heels. But a few were extremely bold by Ferengi standards: all bundled up in garments of Tholian silk, Argelian suede, or Bajoran yak fur, to the point where you could barely see any skin.

Just the thing to inflame a male Ferengi’s heart, Odo thought, shaking his head. Females looking for someone they hope will appreciate them. Guess they’ll have to find a new playmate. Hopefully one who won’t try to plunder their life savings.

The last room Odo checked was the ’fresher. He looked in the cupboards and into the interior mechanisms of the bathroom equipment. Then his eyes fell upon a stack of reading material set on a small table next to the room’s main accoutrement.

He took note of the items: subscription padds for Ferengi World News, Global/Quadrant Finance, and Latinum Times; a Dopterian joke padd; a digital catalogue of Fe-male Fashion (Federation Edition); and, finally, tucked inside a folded copy of a dog-eared pamphlet called “Rules 101: The Road to Wealthiness,” a small personal notepadd.

Odo carefully scrolled through the notepadd. There wasn’t much in it—it was essentially a datebook, containing a few upcoming appointments and reminders to go here or there. Grocery lists. Comm numbers—including those of Frin’s three widows.

And a name that had been scrawled on a blank page with a digital stylus: Sludge Liquid Investments.

The name appeared several times in the notepadd, sometimes with a question mark after it, and once with an exclamation point. Never with an explanation, description, or context.

Clearly Hilt hadn’t known what it was—but it seemed he’d very much wanted to.

Pondering this, Odo slipped from the apartment the same way he’d entered.

Chapter 8

An opalescent twilight had fallen by the time Odo boarded the tram back to the city center. Once seated, he checked the list of Frin’s saloons that he’d gotten from Rom. A number of them were at distant locations across the planet. Most, however, were scattered throughout the capital, with several nearby in the business district.

Jumping off the tram, Odo walked through the early evening rain toward the nearest address. He could see a flamboyant sign ahead, flashing bright Ferengi script. Odo adjusted his padd to “Translate” and pointed it at the lettering. A name popped onto the screen: Frin’s Fabulous Fortune.

Of course, he thought as he stepped under a grandiose portico that stretched over the street. I should have guessed. Instantly, a tastefully tailored valet approached. “Welcome to Frin’s, sir,” the youth uttered in an obsequious tone, and he began brushing the rain from Odo’s “clothes.”

“Don’t bother,” the shape-shifter said, and he shook the water off with a single quiver. The surprised youth stepped back and Odo strode into the saloon.

The room was smaller than he’d expected, given the ostentatious entrance. Granted, the ambiance likely was the stuff that Ferengi dreams were made of. Gilded chandeliers offered more in the way of atmosphere than visibility. Accent lights in the floor directed customers to several gambling tables where Odo heard the familiar cry of “Dabo!” as he made his way toward a bottle-backed bar along the rear wall. He slid onto a stool and a Ferengi bartender caught his attention with a quizzical glance. “Bajoran ale,” the constable said, catching the significance of the look.

Leaning with his back to the bar, he perused the scene. The frippering sound he heard came from a fountain, centrally placed to inspire tranquility and free spending amongst the clientele. A tall plant with purple leaves and orange blossoms grew from a pot positioned next to his stool.

Ah—perfect.

Odo surreptitiously poured a quarter of the ale into the pot, then raised the glass to his mouth to give the impression that he was drinking. After a few minutes, the bartender stopped in front of him. “Another?” he asked.

“No, I’m fine,” Odo responded. Looking at the symbols embroidered on the man’s name tag, he said, “Sorry, but I don’t read Ferengi. Is that your name?”

“Yup. Pug,” he translated.

“Glad to meet you, Pug. A question, if you don’t mind. Did I hear that the owner of this establishment—Frin, I think it was—passed away recently?”

“Yeah,” the bartender answered, remaining nearby but keeping his hands busy peeling and shredding kronfruits. “He was pretty old, so we’d been expecting it for a while.”

“That’s too bad. This looks like a nice place. Do you think it’ll stay open?”

The bartender finished garnishing a bevy of drinks with the fruit. “I don’t know why it wouldn’t,” he said as he placed the drinks on a waiter’s tray.

“That’s good,” Odo replied. “I was hoping to run into a Ferengi financial manager who apparently comes in here sometimes. A man named Hilt. Do you recognize that name?”

“Sounds familiar,” Pug answered, glancing at the constable’s glass. “Are you sure you don’t want that freshened up?”

“I’m fine,” Odo repeated. “I have another question for you. Have you ever heard of something called Sludge Liquid Investments?”

Before Pug could respond, Odo heard a sharp cough come from the far corner of the bar. Pug glanced in that direction, and suddenly his cordial demeanor evaporated. “Never heard of it. I don’t know anything about anything. And if you’re not going to buy another drink, maybe you can leave the seat open for paying customers.”

“Well, thanks for the conversation, Pug,” the Changeling said. As he slipped off the stool, he snuck a discreet look toward the corner and saw a burly Ferengi with a tooth sharpener dangling from his lips. Something about that guy, he thought, is making Pug nervous.

Back on the street, Odo waved down a skimmer and headed for the next saloon on the list. Mulling over his brief encounter with Pug, he wasn’t sure whether he’d learned anything important. Yes, it seemed that Hilt had patronized the place. Maybe. And the mention of “Sludge” had both triggered a response and brought an end to his welcome in the bar. Maybe. Clearly he was no closer to finding Quark.

Maybe.

At the second tavern, Odo waved off another anxious valet. Passing under the portico, he noticed that the exterior bore a strong resemblance to the previous one, right down to the low-relief carvings of famous Ferengi financial heroes that enhanced the entrance. Maybe Frin just got tired of coming up with new décor for each place, he thought.

Inside, the saloon was a bit more crowded than the first, possibly due to the time of day, but by slimming down just a bit, the shape-shifter managed to squeeze into a spot at the bar between a Tellarite and a Ferengi. The Tellarite was speaking loudly to a woman, a human, Odo thought, or perhaps a Betazoid, judging by the hue of her dark black eyes. Not wanting to risk having his brain picked by the woman, he turned from the bar just in time to glimpse the Ferengi he’d spotted at the previous place, still sucking on that tooth sharpener, quietly slip in and seat himself at a booth.

Hmmmm, Odo thought. I seem to have picked up a tail. Maybe my time with Pug was worth something after all.

After a few minutes, he exited the bar, making a point of tipping the valet with a handful of snips, and then casually walking away. When the valet turned to greet another customer, the shape-shifter backed up against the wall and morphed into a carved replica of a financial hero. Seconds later, his tail stepped out of the tavern, looked around, and then engaged the valet in a short conversation. The valet pointed down the street, in the direction that he thought he’d seen the smooth-faced customer take, and both men stared at the empty thoroughfare. Rolling the tooth sharpener around between his lips, the Ferengi held a puzzled look as though pondering his quarry’s disappearance, then turned and walked away.

Odo shimmered back into his humanoid form, and began to tail his tail. Finally, he thought. A lead. He kept his distance, cautiously hugging the walls of the buildings they passed. The Ferengi seemed to have a destination in mind, and the constable was actually starting to enjoy the chase. And then the modified combadge on his uniform chirped.

Odo ducked into an alcove and peeked down the street. The Ferengi didn’t seem to have heard, because he kept walking. Tapping the mechanism, the constable said, softly, “Odo.”

“It works!” he heard Rom’s voice exclaim. “But you didn’t activate the visual!”

“I don’t need the visual right now,” Odo hissed. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you right now. Was there a reason for this call?”

“Oh . . . uh . . . yes!” Rom said, his voice suddenly anxious. “I . . . uh . . . I did what you said, Odo. I contacted a Ferengi security consultant. He’s on his way over to my office. I’m waiting for him now.”

“That’s good,” Odo replied. “I’ll be happy to learn what he had to say when I return. But right now I’m busy.”

“Nooooo!” Rom’s anxious wail was quite audible through the combadge. “I told him you’d be here. You’ve got to come over nooooowww.”

Odo frowned. Maybe I shouldn’t have made those adjustments to my communicator, he thought. Oh well, too late now. “I’ll come as soon as I can, Rom. But at the moment I’m following an important lead.”

Rom’s voice became even more stressed. “But I don’t know anything about Hilt’s death other than what you told me,” he whined, “and he’s going to want to know more. He’ll demand to talk to you. After all, you found the body!”

“Rom,” the shape-shifter recited calmly. “You’ll be fine. You’re the nagus—the most powerful executive in all of the Ferengi Alliance.”

“I know,” the voice over the comm quivered. “But what if he gets mad at me?”

Down the street, Odo watched as his prey disappeared into a crowd. Resigned, he acquiesced. “Okay, Rom,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Chapter 9

“Quirk, chief of security for the capital region,” the Ferengi introduced himself, with a stiff nod of his head.

“Odo,” the Changeling responded. He took in the uniformed humanoid who was standing ramrod-straight in front of him. His posture made him appear a bit taller than the average Ferengi—at least the ones that Odo had encountered to date. “Excuse me, did you say ‘Quark’?”

“No, sir,” the Ferengi responded. “I said ‘Quirk.’ ”

“A common mistake,” said Rom, stepping between them with an ingratiating smile. “Both names are derived from the same Ferengi word for ‘splattered mud,’ but different regions have different mud—”

“What can I do for you, Chief Quirk?” interrupted Odo, eager to be done with the formalities.

“I’m investigating the murder of Financial Manager Hilt,” the Ferengi said. “I understand that you were the last person to see him alive.”

“Actually, I never saw him alive,” Odo clarified. “Apparently, I was the first person to see him dead, other than the person or persons who killed him. And that’s what I reported to the grand nagus.”

“I see,” said Quirk. And he made a notation on the small padd he was holding. “First . . . to . . . see . . . Hilt . . . dead,” he muttered aloud as he tapped at the digital keys. He looked up, his moss-green eyes meeting Odo’s. “And what is your business on Ferenginar, Mister Odo?”

“Just Odo,” the Changeling said. He glanced over at Rom. “I’d assumed that the nagus had filled you in.”

“I was just getting to that,” Rom said hastily. “Odo, um, very kindly volunteered to come to Ferenginar to help me find my brother, Quark. He’s disappeared.”

Quirk turned his attention to Rom. “Missing Persons is an internal security subset handled by my office,” he said. “Was there some reason you didn’t want me involved?”

Rom gulped audibly. “I . . . uh . . . it’s just that Odo knows Quark so well that it seemed obvious to reach out to him. And Odo wanted to help and . . .” He gulped again. “I didn’t think it would be a big deal . . . I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

“Feelings have nothing to do with it,” Quirk responded crisply. “I really don’t care. I have enough to do. What I don’t understand is why Odo here would be the most obvious choice to search for your brother. Perhaps you could enlighten me.”

“My brother’s bar—his main bar, I mean—is located on space station Deep Space 9 in the Denorios Belt,” Rom began. “And, uh, Constable Odo—”

“Former Constable,” Odo clarified for Quirk’s sake. “I retired.”

Quirk nodded, then slowly dropped his gaze to the constable’s uniform with a puzzled frown. Odo opted not to explain.

“Um, right,” Rom continued. “Odo was the chief of security on Deep Space 9 for many years. He was . . . he is, I mean, very familiar with Quark’s, uh, habits and behavior.”

Quirk nodded and began entering the information into his padd. “So you’re friends,” he summarized.

“Yes,” said Rom.

“No,” said Odo. “I would not say friends.”

Quirk frowned and deleted part of what he had written down. “Not friends. Acquaintances, then?”

“Let’s just say . . . I like to keep my eye on him.”

Quirk studied Odo’s face for a second, as if trying to decipher the comment. The shape-shifter offered him an innocuous smile.

“Perhaps you could tell me about your investigation so far,” Quirk said at last.

Odo succinctly laid out the steps he’d taken since he arrived on Ferenginar, and listed the people he’d talked to while Quirk took notes. “I haven’t ascertained a motive for Quark’s disappearance yet,” the Changeling concluded.

“Latinum,” Quirk said without looking up from his padd.

“Well, I can’t state that for certain,” Odo said. “That’s certainly a possibility, but—”

“No ‘buts,’ ” Quirk stated confidently. “It’s always latinum. There’s really no other motive for anything on Ferenginar.”

Rom was quick to nod in agreement.

“All right, let’s say it’s latinum,” Odo allowed. “How do you think that would affect Quark’s disappearance?”

“Well,” said Quirk, idly rubbing one of his lobes, “from what you say, Quark disappeared at approximately the same time that Hilt died. Do you think that Quark is capable of murder?”

It was a question that Odo had asked himself. Rom, on the other hand, refused to even consider the possibility. “No!” the nagus said. “My brother couldn’t possibly kill anyone!”

“Well . . .” said Odo.

Quirk’s sharp gaze returned to Odo. “ ‘Well’ what?”

“Forgive me, Rom,” Odo said, “but you seem to be forgetting about the Klingon that Quark killed in the bar on the old station. You were the primary witness,” he added.

“Me?” sputtered Rom. “I don’t remember—”

“As I recall,” Odo interrupted, “what you said at the time was, ‘My brother fought a desperate hand-to-hand battle with the Klingon and was forced to kill in self-defense!’ ”

“Are you sure that was me?” Rom asked.

“Does Quark have any other brothers?” responded Odo.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Quirk. “The motive’s still latinum. It’s always latinum. There’s only one way to proceed.”

Odo turned back to him. “And what would that be?”

Quirk smiled. “Follow the latinum, of course.”

Odo rolled his eyes. “Of course,” he grunted.

“All right, here’s how I plan to proceed,” Quirk noted, shoving his padd into a pocket. “I will begin looking into Frin’s financial records. And Hilt’s as well.”

Odo cleared his throat. “You should know that I’ve already done a preliminary search of those records.”

“And I’ll bet you found nothing unusual.”

“That’s correct,” the Changeling replied, noting that Quirk looked very smug.

“That’s because you looked at their public accounts. You need special clearance to get where I’m going to go, probing their subterranean Deep Cap accounts. That’s the hermetic passage into the bowels of every Ferengi’s portfolio.”

“And I gather that you have that clearance.”

“I do,” Quirk said. “I can probe places even the nagus can’t reach.”

“That may be true,” Rom said, lifting his chin defiantly. “But I’ll bet that my brother, Quark, could do that.” He held that position for a few seconds . . . and then slowly sank into a more familiar slouched stance. “If only we could find him,” he added sadly. He stared out his office’s large window, down the rain-slick streets of Ferenginar, and sighed. “Where’s Quark when you need him?”

Chapter 10

Quark opened his eyes—and realized that he couldn’t see.

I’m blind! he thought. Somebody help me! he shouted.

Or rather, he tried to shout. But nothing came out.

I’m blind . . . and I’m mute! Am I dead?

No, I can’t be dead, because I have the mother of all headaches.

Have I been buried alive?

He blinked. Then he blinked again. He could feel that he wasn’t blindfolded. And yet the darkness was all-encompassing.

Panicked, he began to flail about with his arms. Except . . . he couldn’t do that either.

Am I paralyzed too? Oh, unjust universe! What did I do to deserve . . .

Wait a minute.

He suddenly realized that although he couldn’t raise his arms, he could feel them. They ached almost as much as his head.

He could feel his hands, too. They were underneath him. He could even wiggle his fingers. Except wiggling his fingers made his wrists feel like they were on fire. Like something horribly tight was restraining them. And each little movement made the restraints dig deeper into his flesh.

He screamed in pain. But of course, nothing came out.

I’m tied up! Why am I tied up? And there’s a gag in my mouth . . .

Suddenly he understood. I’m a prisoner!

The thought relieved him. Not dead—that’s a plus!

But the relief lasted only a moment. Why am I a prisoner? And where am I?

He was breathing rapidly—but he couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen into his lungs. Not with that gag in place. He was beginning to see bursts of light in the inky blackness. But they weren’t in his prison. They were in his brain.

Passing out . . .

No. No. Stop it! Stop panicking, you idiot! Calm down! Calm . . . down . . .

His breathing slowed and he began to feel better. A little better.

Do something useful, he told himself. Try to remember how you got here—wherever here is.

Nothing came to him, not at first. He couldn’t remember a thing.

Except that whatever had happened was clearly Rom’s fault.

It was always Rom’s fault.

And that made him think of Ferenginar. Hadn’t he gone to Ferenginar?

Yes! But what happened there . . . ?

Slowly, recent memories began to swirl around in his brain.

Rom.

Ferenginar.

Frin.

Frin’s wives.

And Hilt! I went to see Hilt!

Suddenly it all began to play out in his mind like a holovid.

No one was in Hilt’s outer office; the assistant’s chair was empty. Judging by the dilapidated state of the building, Quark suspected that the assistant’s chair in Hilt’s office was always empty.

So he barged into the interior office without knocking.

A male Ferengi looked up from his desk. Hilt! A gaunt fellow, with prominent cheekbones. Looked like he hadn’t eaten a good meal in a while.

Hilt seemed surprised at the intrusion, but not unhappy to see what must have appeared to him to be a potential client.

Quark started talking. Fast. “I’m a relative of Frin, the late tavern magnate. He was my uncle, actually. We were very close. I came by to check on the family—his loved ones. And I heard about the nagus’s new amendment to Rule 139. You know about that, right?”

“Of course!” said Hilt. “I always attend the FECA meetings. One never knows when an opportunity might arise from them.”

“Very smart. Tell me about yourself, Hilt.”

And the lummox cheerfully went into a litany of his accomplishments over the years, during much of which Quark wandered around the small office, studying images of Hilt posing proudly with a lot of lower-level Ferengi politicians. Then Quark spotted a framed document on the wall. Hilt’s certified business license, required by the Ferengi Commerce Authority to be posted in every operating Ferengi establishment. The certificate stated that Hilt had been a registered financial manager since . . .

Since 2385.

Probably about five minutes after the FECA approved Rom’s amendment.

Quark thought about what a newly minted financial manager might do to secure a lucrative business opportunity.

Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that Frin had passed away just a few weeks after the amendment went through.

Turning back to Hilt, Quark interrupted the flow of self-congratulatory mush coming from the man’s mouth. “I get it,” the barkeep said. “My aunties seem to be in good hands. Those taverns are quite valuable. It’s so lucky they found you.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Or was it you who found them?”

The comment made Hilt twitch. Just a bit, but Quark caught it, nonetheless. “Why, they found me, of course!”

“Of course,” said Quark amiably.

“And it’s a good thing they did. Someone might have tried to take advantage of them! But that won’t happen on my watch, no sir.”

“I take it you’ll be managing the taverns for them, then?”

“Naturally.”

“Forgive my asking, but—do you know much about that line of business? It’s not as easy as it looks, you know.” He smiled. “I know about bars. You may have heard of me. I’m Quark, of Quark’s Public House, Café, Gaming Emporium, Holosuite Arcade, and Ferengi Embassy to Bajor.”

Hilt shook his head. “I can’t say I’ve heard of you. But I can assure you I know all that I need to know.”

“That’s good, that’s good,” Quark said, at last getting to the point. “You know, even though I’m not the primary heir, I feel that I must see some tangible proof to be reassured about the welfare of those lovely ladies. I’d like to glance at Frin’s records or get some documentation of the profitability of each tavern.”

As he expected, Hilt opened his mouth to protest, but Quark spoke first. “You know, as the oldest male relation of the deceased, that is my right.”

Hilt remained silent for a moment, his upbeat mood quashed. “Well, Mister Quark, I’d love to accommodate you, but I’m quite busy. You did come unannounced, after all. And did I mention that I’m expecting a client at any minute?” He rose from his desk. “Why don’t we set up an appointment for you to come back when I have more time, and by then I’ll have everything prepared for you.”

“And when would that be?” Quark pressed.

“Make an appointment with my assistant.”

Quark made a show of glancing over his shoulder at the outer office. “You don’t seem to have an assistant.”

“He’s out to lunch.”

Quark feigned surprise. “You give him time for lunch? You’re a generous man. When will he be back?”

“When he’s finished with his lunch,” Hilt said through gritted teeth. “Why don’t you call tomorrow?”

Quark decided to pull out his metaphorical ace. “You know, you say you’ve never heard of me. I suppose that’s possible. The educational system here isn’t what it used to be. But I’m pretty sure you’ve heard of my brother: THE NAGUS—”

Quark was about to add something particularly pithy when he heard a noise in the outer office. “Oh—might that be your assistant, back from lunch?” he queried. “Or would it be your next appointment?”

Strangely, Hilt didn’t reply. And one look at his apprehensive expression told Quark that he wasn’t expecting either.

“Well, maybe we should just find out who it is,” Quark said. He turned, but felt Hilt grab hold of his arm before he could take a step toward the door.

Another noise in the outer office, and Hilt’s grip tightened. Quark realized that the financial manager’s hand was trembling.

What’s he so scared of?

A second later, the door to Hilt’s office burst open. He heard Hilt squeal in terror, then heard his own voice join in.

There was a burst of blinding light, and the smell of singed flesh, and then . . .

Darkness.

This darkness.

Quark was filled with a mixture of horror (he could now quite clearly remember that Hilt was dead), and relief (But I didn’t get shot!), and several pertinent questions (First on the list: Why didn’t I get shot?).

He sat in the dark for a few long minutes, then slowly struggled to his feet (which, he realized, also were bound), and began to hop, first in one direction, then another. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for; he decided that he’d know it when he found it.

And then—whomp!—he did find it—a vertical surface. A wall. Good! And where there’s a wall . . .

He slid along the wall until he found a shallow indentation. A door!

He pushed at it with his body, shoved it hard—once, twice, thrice—but it remained firmly in place.

If only I had a battering ram!

But he didn’t. All he had was his head.

That would have to do. And he began thumping his head against the door, hoping against hope that someone would hear him.

It didn’t do the headache any good whatsoever.

But it did bring someone!

Whoosh! The door slid open. Quark initially was blinded by the contrast in light. Then a dark shape in front of him coalesced into a Ferengi—a slovenly, somewhat overweight Ferengi, with a sour expression. Their eyes met and Quark grunted passionately about his plight.

His expression unchanged, the Ferengi on the other side raised one of his hands slowly, then extended his index finger—and poked Quark, hard, in the chest.

Quark fell backward, landing painfully on his posterior.

Then the door slid shut, and he once again was in the inky blackness.

Chapter 11

The former constable and the security chief departed from the nagus’s office together. Quirk paused on the stairs and took a deep breath of the rain-sodden air. “Beautiful night,” he commented. “You can smell the fralix and the phobin quite clearly.”

Odo decided not to ask if Quirk was talking about flora or fauna. He couldn’t smell either in any event, and he had a different topic of discussion in mind. “If you don’t mind my asking, Chief Quirk, why are you looking into this matter, rather than the FCA or some other government organization?”

Quirk smiled. “This crime doesn’t rate their attention. It isn’t in their league. They deal with matters of state and planetary concerns. The high-level financial dealings that make this world go round. My responsibilities are much more parochial: personal assault, murder, mayhem. That probably represented the bulk of your casework on that space station. But here—” He gestured past the neatly manicured fungi field in front of the building, toward the lights of the surrounding Sacred Marketplace. “Here that adds up to a very small percentage of crime. In the capital city, I’m a force of one.”

“I see,” Odo commented. Quirk continued walking, but Odo held his position at the bottom of the stairs, wondering if he was required to follow. “Chief Quirk,” he called out as the distance between them grew, “am I free to go?”

Quirk turned. “That depends,” he responded. He studied Odo closely. “Did you kill Hilt?”

Odo stiffened. The question offended him. “Would you believe me if I said ‘No’?”

“Got any interest in latinum?” asked Quirk.

“None whatsoever.”

“Fine. You’re free to go.”

Odo stared at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Quirk took a step in the direction he’d been going, then turned back toward the shape-shifter. “Don’t leave the planet.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Odo said. “But just so you know, I do plan to continue searching for the nagus’s brother.”

Quirk shrugged. “Be my guest. Let me know if you find him. I don’t know if he was the one responsible for making that big hole in Hilt, but if Quark is still alive, he probably knows something. I want to talk to him.”

Odo nodded. Then the two investigators headed off in different directions.

Chapter 12

Quark stared into the blackness. It’s darker than death or night, he thought as he felt a growing (and, considering the gag, futile) urge to scream. His backside hurt where he’d landed on it.

Fighting the bindings on his wrists and legs, he crawled to where he thought the door had been, then inched up until he was standing. Precariously. He placed his ear against the door and listened. Nothing. But someone had been out there before, so probably someone would be out there now.

He took a deep breath and started thumping the wall the way he had before. With his head. Hard. And squealing a muffled cry of agony each time he did.

Bang! “Ow!”

Bang! “Ow!”

Bang! “Owwwwww!”

And suddenly the door whisked open.

Quark’s initial perception of the light from the outer room was of a blinding red flash, but as the throbbing pain in his head began to subside, it softened to a dull yellow. He blinked several times and at last two male Ferengi came into focus in front of him.

They had very similar faces, and for a moment he wondered if he might be seeing double. Then he noticed that they were dressed differently. He had no idea which one had opened the door previously. He hadn’t thought to study anyone’s wardrobe—which seemed a good idea, now that he got a better look. The one directly in front of him had on an ill-fitting checkered green suit with very large lapels. Quark wouldn’t have allowed it in his bar, let alone his closet. The guy was sucking on a tooth sharpener—a disgusting habit, in Quark’s opinion. He recalled Ishka’s ultimately successful efforts to break Rom of the behavior when the future nagus was going through his “I want to be as cool as the other guys” phase while attending (and failing) at the Capital City Brokerage Academy.

The other Ferengi had flabby bare arms that poked out from a shiny orange vest. His baggy pants were burgundy colored, and looking at the two hues together made Quark’s head hurt even more.

Well, these are a couple of real winners.

Still, they were the ones in control of the situation. He’d gotten them to open the door again, but facing his tormentors couldn’t really be considered much of a victory. Nevertheless, their slovenly appearance emboldened him and lifted his spirits. They didn’t look to be the brightest bricks in the bank, so he decided to take a chance on defending himself with his most powerful weapon: his gift of gab.

Or rather, he decided, he would as soon as he got them to remove the gag. He began to grunt at them.

“What’s that he’s saying, Bakke?” the Ferengi in orange asked.

“I think he’s thanking us, Rascoe, because he knows,” the other said, turning and looking directly into Quark’s eyes, “that in a minute WE’RE GONNA PUT HIM OUT OF HIS FRINXING MISERY!”

If the statement was meant to frighten him into silence, it only served to make Quark start grunting faster. Finally—whether out of frustration or curiosity, Quark couldn’t tell—the Ferengi in the orange vest pulled a shiny hunting blade from his belt. Light from the outer room flashed over its polished surface as he waved it in front of his prisoner’s face. Then he stuck the blade under the gag—and cut it free.

Refreshing air rushed into Quark’s gaping mouth for the first time in . . . in . . .

In truth, he wasn’t sure how long he’d been trussed and gagged. But as quickly as the oxygen filled his lungs, he pushed it out, shaping it into his finest salesmanship spiel.

“Gentlemen,” he began. “It might surprise you to know that I’m aware of what you’re experiencing right now. You feel that you’ve got yourself a problem.”

The Ferengi with the blade held it closer to Quark’s throat.

“Aaannnnddd . . . I . . . I know that I may seem to be that problem,” Quark faltered as he attempted to lean back away from the blade without falling over. “Yes, it’s true that I saw what you gentlemen did to Hilt. And I suspect that you’re not quite sure what to do with me. At least I hope you’re not. But please allow me to assist you with your evaluation.” He cleared his throat to give his next statement more impact. “You see, I’m not just your average troublesome witness. I’m the nagus’s brother. The nagus’s brother. Think about it.”

One of his two captors rolled his eyes at this. The other made an extremely rude noise sucking on his tooth sharpener.

The response was somewhat less than he’d imagined, but Quark plowed forward. “And, uh, that makes me more valuable than you know. You shouldn’t be viewing me as an enemy. You should be viewing me as an asset. A huge asset. And what I mean by that—”

“Stop . . . talking!” Green Suit barked.

“Okay,” Quark responded obediently, only slightly cowed. “Okay, I can be quiet. But I really think you need to understand how listening to me would be to your advantage.”

The two Ferengi exchanged glances. And Green Suit—That’s Bakke, Quark thought, matching his name and description in his head—lifted his eyes toward the heavens. Orange Vest—Rascoe—matched the movement, then looked back at Bakke and shrugged. Suddenly, Bakke pushed the button that slid the door shut, leaving Quark once again in the dark.

At least they didn’t knock me over this time, he thought. He leaned against the door, allowing the minutes to pass. He could hear them talking—but not what they were saying. And then everything was so quiet that he almost drifted to sleep.

At last he heard—or perhaps felt more than heard—the pounding of two sets of feet coming closer. And the door again whisked open.

“Get him outta there,” Bakke said, and Rascoe obediently lifted Quark by the scruff of his neck.

Clearly he was stronger than those flabby arms suggested.

As his bound feet left the floor, Quark began to scream, fear of the unknown finally getting the best of him. But the scream was abruptly cut off when Rascoe dropped him on the floor like a sack of larval swamp tubers.

I’m out, he thought. I’m out of there! Out of that awful—

—Storage closet? As he glanced back through the open door at his recent prison, he noted for the first time a cluster of cleaning supplies on some high shelves and a programmable floor mop in the corner. They had me in a storage closet?

He would have been incensed at the indignity of it all if he’d had time. But Rascoe quickly grabbed him under the armpits, Bakke took hold of his bound ankles, and the two of them began to drag him up a nearby flight of stairs.

A very steep flight of stairs.

And Quark’s buttocks slammed against every single step as they climbed.

Bang! “Ow!”

Bang! “Ow!”

Bang! “Owwwwww!”

Chapter 13

My dear Nerys,

I spent a good portion of today trying to recover the ground that I lost yesterday when Rom—

Well, never mind that. The interruption gave me an opportunity to regenerate, so I was able to start this day fresh.

I went back to one of the saloons I visited yesterday. I wanted to ask the bartender—a Ferengi named Pug—a few more questions, hopefully without the presence of an eavesdropping barfly whose proximity had given Pug a sudden case of laryngitis.

But neither one was in the bar. A young Argelian woman was serving up drinks to the afternoon crowd. She had long red hair that made me think of yours. It seems that Pug hadn’t shown up for his shift, and she was filling in. She told me she assumed Pug was ill.

That was disappointing, but an investigator learns to play the cards he’s dealt. I described the Ferengi barfly to her, making sure to mention an important detail: the tooth sharpener he’d been sucking on. Did she know him? I asked.

As it turned out, she did, and she was happy to spill everything she knew about the unsavory fellow, beginning with his name: Bakke.

Fara—the Argelian—described him as a “scumbag” who ran up substantial monthly tabs that Pug always took care of.

That piqued my curiosity. I asked her, “What does Bakke do for a living?”

“Nothing, as far as I can tell,” she responded. “He’s always talking about what a big deal he’s going to be when his casino business takes off.”

“Does he have a casino?”

After she stopped laughing, Fara expressed the opinion that from what she’d seen, Bakke didn’t have enough latinum to buy himself a drink, let alone a casino.

“Why do you think Pug covers his tab?” I asked.

She shrugged and said, “You can’t ask Pug questions like that. He just clams up. It’s odd, though. Pug acts like Bakke is his boss or something. Like he’s important. Gint knows where he gets that idea!”

Playing a hunch, I described Hilt to her, and asked if she’d ever seen him come in.

“Yeah, I’ve seen him,” she said. “Comes in once in a while, and if Bakke’s here at the same time, they split a pitcher of hot millipede juice. Well, at least until last week.”

“What happened last week?” I asked.

“They had an argument. Ended with Bakke throwing a pitcher at Hilt.”

“What were they arguing about?”

“Who knows? Bakke was yelling something about slugs. Like ‘Keep your nose outta my slugs or you won’t have a nose!’ ”

I’ve been looking for a lead on something called Sludge Liquid Investments, so I asked Fara if the word she’d heard Bakke say might have been “sludge.”

But of course she couldn’t say.

Nor could she say where Bakke lives. She claimed that she didn’t want to know.

I tried a different tack. “What about Pug? Do you know where he lives?”

She looked me straight in the eye. “Why would you want to know that?” she asked.

“Maybe I want to bring him something to make him feel better,” I said.

To my surprise, she put her hand on top of mine, and said, “How about if I tell you where I live? Maybe you could bring something to make me feel better.”

I’ll be honest. I didn’t know how to respond. I wasn’t sure if she wanted latinum or . . . something else.

I vow, Nerys, I had done nothing to provoke this behavior on her part.

But I did want to find Pug, so we began to negotiate. And eventually, she gave me the address.

I’m on my way there now.

Chapter 14

The tram route didn’t go anywhere near the address Fara provided for Pug, and Odo knew he was unlikely to find a skimmer willing to take him into that neighborhood.

So the Changeling decided to walk.

It was raining when Odo left the bar. Glancing out the window, Fara had described the precipitation he was about to encounter as thloppering.

He knew that the Ferengi language had 178 words for rain, each describing moisture of a certain type and severity. Although Odo wasn’t familiar with all of them, he decided that thloppering must fall somewhere in the middle of the pack in terms of intensity.

By the time he got to Pug’s neighborhood, however, he realized that his estimate had been low. Much, much too low. It was as if the sky had come down and wrapped itself around every unlucky soul who had the misfortune to be outside. The sheet of precipitation embraced Odo like the Great Link . . . except where the Great Link was warm and nurturing, the rain was cold and bleak and offered no sustenance.

There were no visible signs of illumination at Pug’s humble shack. Odo considered the possibilities. If Pug was home alone, sick or not, he’d probably have turned the lights on by now. If he had company, he’d also have turned the lights on by now. Of course, he could have hightailed it out of town, spooked by the questions Odo had asked at the bar. Or he could be sleeping.

The shape-shifter peeked through a window set in the door. Nothing moved inside. He rapped his knuckles on the door, then peeked in again. Still nothing.

He stared down at the ground, at the puddle forming around his feet and slowly trickling under the door.

Well, when on Ferenginar, do as the climate does . . .

. . . and suddenly the puddle was much larger. It oozed under the door, where most of it morphed back into Odo’s humanoid form, sans the excess moisture that had gathered on his body during his walk.

He looked around the room cautiously. The door led into a tiny kitchen, dark and silent but for the sound of heavy raindrops on the roof.

“Hello?” he called out. “Pug, are you here?”

No response.

“Lights,” he said out loud, and the room’s voice-controlled illumination came up.

After that, it didn’t take long for him to locate Pug. The bartender was in the next room. On the floor. With a hole burned into his chest that looked quite similar to the one Odo had observed in Hilt.

The Changeling sighed.

He contacted Quirk.

“Two murders in one week,” observed the security consultant. “I typically don’t see two murders in a decade, Constable. If nothing else, you’re bad luck to the people of Ferenginar.”

“Trust me,” the shape-shifter said, “I’d be happy to distance myself from your planet, but I need to find the nagus’s brother first.”

Quirk knelt next to the body. After a quick examination, he looked up at Odo. “Want to tell me why you were visiting this unfortunate fellow?” he said, poking a forensic instrument into the singed hole.

“I was hoping to follow up on a conversation he and I had yesterday at one of Frin’s establishments. He’s the bartender there. He didn’t come to work today, so I came here.”

“Looks like his excuse to take a sick day was valid,” Quirk said, getting to his feet and studying the instrument. “He was shot last night. Who knew that you talked to the bartender?”

“Anyone who was there yesterday. One customer in particular seemed interested in the conversation. In fact, he followed me out of the tavern. I gave him the slip and was attempting to track him down, but I was interrupted in my pursuit.”

Quirk nodded silently as he put the instrument in its case and attached it to his belt.

“I learned today that the customer’s name was Bakke,” continued Odo. “Apparently he had a history with both Pug and Hilt.” The shape-shifter described Bakke, and Quirk jotted down a few notes. “Have you heard of him?” Odo questioned.

“Can’t say I have,” Quirk responded. “I’ll start looking into who this Bakke fellow might be connected to in the Great Material Continuum. Someone might have figured Pug was rocking their boat on the Great River.”

Odo stared at Pug’s body and frowned. He didn’t relish the thought that his interest in the deceased might have gotten him killed, particularly since he hadn’t provided any relevant information.

Which reminds me . . .

“Chief, have you come across anything called Sludge Liquid Investments in your research?” he asked.

Quirk shook his head. “I’m still going through Frin’s backlog of files, but nothing like that has come up. I did notice that Hilt was doing some very creative bookkeeping with the widows’ accounts, but nothing that seems too out of the ordinary. Do you think Sludge Liquid Investments is important?”

“Hilt seemed to think so. And it appears that Bakke did too.”

The two investigators left the shack together, stepping out into the continuing rain. Quirk headed toward his official Department of Security skimmer. “Need a lift somewhere?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” said Odo. “I think better when I’m walking.”

“Suit yourself,” Quirk said with a shrug. He opened the door to the skimmer, then paused before he entered. “By the way, Constable, how did you manage to get into Pug’s house without overriding any of the locks on the doors or windows?”

Odo’s faint smile was ghostlike in the glistening rain. “I’ve picked up a few skills over the years,” he said. Then he turned and disappeared into the dark and sodden night.

Chapter 15

His kidnappers paused at a landing where the staircase took a turn. “He’s heavier than he looks,” Rascoe complained, his exposed arms damp with sweat. “Why couldn’t this conversation take place downstairs?”

“You know why,” responded Bakke, who was panting just as hard as his counterpart. “Because ‘all business discussions take place in the tower.’ So catch your breath and let’s go!”

As the painful process again got under way, Quark decided that it was time to make a helpful suggestion. “You realize that this trip would be easier on all of us if you untied my feet and let me walk up the stairs?”

“SHUT UP!” the two kidnappers shouted in unison.

Idiots, Quark thought between the painful bounces. Wait—all business discussions take place in the tower? What tower? What’s that about? Who’s up there?

After another landing, and another pause, and yet another flight of steps, Quark worried that they planned to carry him to the roof and drop him off. Maybe that’s what these maroons call a business discussion, he thought. But on the next, and apparently final, landing, the pair stepped through an open doorway and dumped him onto the floor—which felt different. Surprised, he saw that it was carpeted.

Carpeted nicely, too.

Bakke shot a glare at Quark. “Stay here!” he ordered. Then he and Rascoe went through the doorway and headed back down the stairs.

“And where is it that you think I could go?” Quark shouted after them, determined to have a defiant last word.

Their voices floated up the stairwell. “SHUT UP!”

Alone at last, Quark looked around to see what fresh new purgatory he’d been delivered unto.

To his surprise, he was in a brightly lit suite, filled with tasteful furnishings—which told him that he’d been correct about a third “who” being involved in this illicit group. Neither Rascoe nor Bakke seemed the type to appreciate such decor. One half of the area was designated as a sitting room, with comfortable-looking puffed-fabric chairs in a deep, rich blue; elegant accent tables; and a golden yellow divan strewn with pillows. The other side resembled a traditional office, albeit a very swanky one. A cushioned executive chair sat behind a handsome desk of rich tickwood set on beautiful curvy legs. The desk was flanked by classic urns of live, rare fungi phyla: giant zygomycota and ascomycota that Quark knew to be expensive, not to mention delicious. A computer sat in the center of the desk, along with a number of padds that were neatly arranged, aligned with the edge of the desktop.

This is the kind of office I would have if I could afford it.

The distinctive sound of rain beating against a frosted window caught Quark’s ears. Thloppering, he thought. So I’m still on Ferenginar. I don’t know which part of the planet, but at least I’m alive. And being in this room is a lot better than being in that subterranean storage closet. I can see the light, and hear the rain, and smell the perfume.

Wait. Perfume?

Quark heard soft footsteps behind him and, with difficulty, he twisted around just enough to see who was entering the room. He followed with his eyes as a Ferengi female clad in a bold red cape dress walked past him and sat down behind the desk.

“Toad Sweat in Spring,” he said.

“Why, yes,” the woman said, visibly pleased. “Very good. It’s my favorite scent. Perhaps you’re a bit more cultivated than the average male I encounter around here.”

“Undoubtedly,” Quark said from his position on the floor. “Plus, it’s a favorite of my mother’s as well.”

“Not surprising,” she said with an enigmatic smile. “It’s very popular with a certain segment of the female population.”

Her pronunciation of the word “female” caught Quark’s attention. Most Ferengi—well, most male Ferengi—emphasized the first syllable of the word. But a growing “segment of the female population,” as she’d put it, had begun to consider that pronunciation demeaning.

Okay, she’s one of them, he thought.

His captor sat for a long moment, contemplating the man trussed before her. At last she said, “I understand from my sons that you regard yourself as a valuable commodity.”

Those cretins are hers? Quark frowned. Something about her voice struck him as familiar—although in his memory it had carried more of a soft, submissive lilt.

He cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “if they told you that, they must have mentioned that my brother is—”

“Yes, yes, I know. He’s the nagus. And while it would be annoying having the nagus poke his nose into my affairs while looking for his brother, it wouldn’t be the end of my world. Yet you’re quite right. That revelation is what so far has prevented the end of your world. When the boys heard you mention it to Hilt, they decided it might be best to keep you alive until I could talk to you. You are, after all, family.”

Quark stared at her. “Family?”

She smiled. “Yes. Well, contractually speaking anyway, Nephew.”

Quark’s jaw dropped as he realized where he’d heard her voice before.

Fe-males look sooo different when dressed! he thought. But he was too surprised to immediately comment on that fact.

“What’s the matter, Quark?” she said sharply, leaning forward over her desk. “Gilvo got your tongue?”

“Yrena!” he gasped at last. “Aunt Yrena! In clothes! Frin would be . . . incensed!”

“Frin has been interred,” she said with a chuckle. “I doubt that he cares about anything, except perhaps the price his remains are bringing on the Futures Exchange.”

“Well, I’m incensed!” Quark sputtered. Using every bit of strength he could muster, he wiggled himself into an upright position. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “Where am I? And why?”

Yrena’s high, barking laugh pierced the air. “Why, you’re in the same home you were when you first came to see me. In the upper level, actually.”

She stood, then stepped out from behind her desk and slowly circled the room. “This is the house that Frin built for me and my two darling little boys when we first got married. He was going to make it a traditional suburban wifely hovel, with a couple of ’freshers, a kitchen, a room for the boys, and a great big bedroom for the two of us.” She chuckled. “Not that we used that much! Anyway, I convinced him that I also needed a space where I could sometimes be alone—a meditation room. I said that it would help me focus on my wifely duties. He wasn’t happy about the extra expense, but after a bit of . . . persuasion”—here she reached out to run a finger down one of Quark’s lobes—“the old fool agreed to build my tower. It’s quite practical. I knew he’d never be able to climb up to check on me—too many stairs. And no lift. So he never knew what I do up here.”

“And what do you do up here?”

“You tell me,” she said coyly. She picked up several of the padds on her desk, one at a time, and held them so her prisoner could read the screens.

“They’re just ordinary accounting ledgers and balance sheets,” Quark started to say. And then it struck him. “You . . . you’re doing . . . business!” he said.

His knee-jerk response was to scold her and tell her she was a disgrace to fe-male Ferengi. But he wisely held his tongue. After all, his own mother was the fe-male who’d manipulated the rule change. Instead, he made a plain statement of fact. “So Frin never realized you were that kind of fe-male.”

Yrena smiled. “Of course not. But I didn’t just jump into it. I studied Frin’s investments for years. I spent a great deal of my ‘naked and alone’ time thinking about how I’d run his business differently.” She took several more padds off the desk and laid them on the floor in front of Quark. “These are just a few of my most recent ideas,” she said. “What do you think?”

Quark leaned over and scrutinized the screens. “Interesting,” he said after a moment. “I especially like these shell accounts on the Isle of Grub.” Then he frowned. “But this new tavern—really? You’re planning to build a tavern in Upper Bowog Bay? That’s a big mistake!”

“And why do you say that, dear?”

“That’s Eelwasser’s home turf—the Upper Bowog Bay and the whole of Bowog Bog, for that matter. Every businessman who enters the Tower of Commerce knows that the Eelwasser people have verified their plans for a chain of high-end cafés in that region,” Quark said, unable to keep a know-it-all tone from his voice. “Their flagship facility will be in Upper Bowog Bay, near the main Eelwasser plant. A grubby little tavern won’t have a chance against those fancy cafés.”

Yrena chucked. “My facility won’t be a simple tavern,” she said derisively. “You’re almost as big a fool as Frin.” Lifting her eyes and her arms toward the ceiling as if in reverie, she declared, “I am building the ultimate destination spot on Ferenginar for seekers of venial iniquity. And gambling, of course. This will be a Temple of Turpitude! A Warren of Wantonness that will draw customers from across the Ferengi Alliance.” She dropped to her knees in front of Quark and stared directly into his startled blue eyes. “Eelwasser’s limited vision is focused on . . .”—she paused and practically spit out the word—“cafés! A place to buy a brew and eat a snail sandwich! Bar food! I’m building the ultimate recreational facility! And nothing Eelwasser attempts will stand a chance against it.”

Then she got up, returned to her desk, seated herself, and calmly stated, “No Ferengi has ever attempted a project this ambitious. It will be my legacy. How do you like the name Reni’s Latinum Lyceum?”

Quark relaxed a bit with Yrena seated farther from him, but he still worried. He needed to get away from her, and fast. The woman was dangerous! Maybe you should build a Domicile for the Deranged, he thought. You could be the first resident.

Then the negotiator in him realized that his only chance of staying alive at this point was to act as though he thought her idea was brilliant.

“I love the name!” he said, attempting to sound sincere. “But where would you get the latinum to build it? You’d have to sell all ten of your taverns, and even then, it wouldn’t be enough.”

“Oh, I don’t have to sell anything,” Yrena replied. “I have . . . let’s call it an endowment. Or I did until that fool Hilt rerouted the latinum flow. But we’ve since managed to straighten that out, haven’t we, boys?”

Quark heard insipid giggling from the stairwell and realized that Rascoe and Bakke had returned. He kept his eyes on Yrena. “You, uh, you figured out a financial plan?”

She brought Quark still another padd. “You’re a businessman,” she said. “Tell me what you think of my methods.”

Quark smiled enthusiastically and studied the padd, more to satisfy her apparent need for recognition than to satisfy his own curiosity. But then his eyes grew large. It was all there—how she got the money for the casino and why Hilt was eliminated. And it actually made sense.

“You diverted assets from the other wives’ holdings into a hidden account and accumulated quite a large nest egg,” he observed. “And invested it in the Futures Exchange . . . where it did extremely well.” He looked up at her admiringly. “That’s very good work. But the other wives—they didn’t notice?”

“Them? They never look at the accounts. As long as they get their monthly stipend to keep them comfortable, they don’t think twice about it.”

“But Hilt—I guess he noticed it,” Quark said quietly.

“Yes, that fool! When he approached the three of us and offered to help us increase the size of our trust in exchange for a small commission, Chartreux and Weede jumped at the opportunity. I went along with it, figuring he couldn’t cause much harm. He seemed too stupid.”

“But he found the blind alley you’d created,” Quark added.

“I’d made it look like Frin created it before he died—a new venture with a nondescript name: Sludge Liquid Investments. Hilt tried to get at it, to find out what it was, and he couldn’t. It drove him crazy!”

“Let me guess how it worked,” Quark said. “Technically, the latinum that flowed into that venture didn’t belong to the wives, which meant Hilt couldn’t add a percentage of it into his commission.”

Yrena nodded. “But then he found a way to block it. He rerouted the money into the accounts of Frin’s three widows.”

“Well, uh—that was nice of him . . .” Quark said tentatively.

“Nice? Nice?” Yrena squawked. “When I found out, I sent the boys over to talk some sense into him. Unfortunately, things got . . . messy.”

“I know,” Quark said. “I was there.”

“Yes, you were. And now you’re here. And everything is back on track. My entertainment empire will be operating by the end of the year.”

Quark looked at Yrena with a sense of revulsion, mixed with a touch of understanding. Maybe even admiration, although he hated to admit it to himself. She obviously was obsessed with her plan, to a frightening degree. She was a psychopath. Or maybe a high-functioning sociopath. Is there a difference? he wondered.

Her dream had resulted in the death of one person, maybe more. But the business acumen evident in the financial structure she’d detailed on the padds was compelling, focused, and clear. The parameters of her objectives and goals were logical—in spite of her unorthodox acquisition methods.

She’s a thief and a murderer, he told himself. But a very smart business . . . um . . . person.

Fortunately, business was his forte.

“Well, this is all very beautiful, Yrena,” he said. “Beautiful and ambitious. Just like you, I might add. But you have yet to finalize a prospectus on growth potential. And you haven’t defined the flow of operations. Are you planning to structure as a proprietorship or a corporation? The FCA will want to know every aspect of your tax enhancements before you can open the doors to the public. And a very enthusiastic public it will be—if you can get the necessary licenses.”

He paused. Yrena was studying him thoughtfully, perhaps balancing the scales on whether it made more sense to kill him or keep him alive. So he kept talking. “You know, Yrena, once your intentions become public knowledge, every commercial investor on Ferenginar will be knocking on your door. And while I suspect you won’t want to admit outside partners, with all of that attention, the FCA will have no choice but to offer you a spot on the floor of the Exchange. Think of that!

“But that’s only if this whole project is properly handled. You’ll get a lot of buzz, but will it be the right kind of buzz? You’ll need someone to help you with that.”

“And who would that someone be?” she asked, although they both knew the answer.

“Well, I don’t want to brag, but I know I can provide the tools to guarantee your project will be the most talked about on the planet. And talked about the right way. With respect.”

Yrena’s eyes narrowed. “And how,” she asked, “would you do that?”

“I’m sure you’ll agree that it would be far easier for me to show you than to tell you,” Quark said, his confidence growing. “In fact, being in this position”—and he balanced himself so that he could lift his bound ankles off the floor—“doesn’t really inspire cooperation. Now, if you would like to untie me so I can collaborate with you, perhaps for a minority stake, I already see ways of reducing your start-up costs that will get the entire project off the ground sooner than you’ve anticipated.”

Yrena paced around the room. Her brutal sons frowned when she looked at them. They clearly didn’t think keeping Quark alive was a good idea. But they also knew better than to offer unsolicited opinions.

At last the person who had been Frin’s second wife stopped pacing—right in front of Quark. “I have to admit,” she said, “over the years I’ve heard good things about your financial finesse. Frin once mentioned that he’d ‘borrowed’ one of your investment techniques—I believe he called it your ‘modus operandi’—during a negotiation.”

“He did?” said Quark, wondering if he should have received a royalty on that deal, whichever deal it had been. Then he quickly refocused on the matter at hand. “Oh—yes, of course. It’s good to hear he valued my advice.”

“Perhaps I might allow you to hold a company position—a minor one, of course—if you can provide some suggestions that prove to have merit.”

“Works for me,” Quark said quickly. And he thrust out his bound hands.

“Release your . . . cousin,” Yrena said, looking at Rascoe.

Holding his breath, Quark watched as Rascoe pulled his knife from his belt, leaned forward, and with two quick slashes, freed his hands and feet.

“Thank you,” Quark said, almost meaning it. Rubbing his wrists in an attempt to get the vital fluids back into circulation, he said, “I’ll start going over your plans in detail as soon as I get some rest back at—”

“I have a better idea,” Yrena said. “You need to have a look at Bowog. Come along.” She reached down to offer Quark a hand as he stood. “Rascoe and I will give you a tour of the construction site. You’ll see the progress that we’ve already made, and then we’ll put together some ideas!”

“You mean that you’ve started construction without the proper permits,” Quark said. “That’s not . . .”

The big toothy grin she flashed at Quark gave him pause—and made him wonder whether he’d been freed, or gotten entangled in even stronger bindings.

Yrena watched Rascoe lead Quark down the stairs. When they had passed out of earshot, she turned to Bakke—and smacked him on the head.

“Who told you to kill the bartender?” she hissed. “He was the only employee who could mix a perfect Samarian Sunset!”

“Stop!” Bakke whined as he attempted to cover his head with his arms. “He had to go. He knew too much. When that nosy smooth-face started grilling him, I figured we might be in trouble.”

“Well, what’s done is done,” Yrena grumbled. “But you left a loose thread. Go back and search the taverns for that smooth-face. He’s the last odd piece that we need to get rid of.”

“What about the nagus’s brother?” responded Bakke, taking her arm and leading her toward the stairs.

“We’ll accept whatever financial know-how Quark has to offer. And when that resource dries up, you’ll dispose of him. Just the way you disposed of Hilt and the bartender.”

“And the way you put Frin on the express tram to meet the Celestial Auctioneers,” Bakke added with a smirk.

Yrena smacked Bakke on the head. Again. “Shut up about that! It was a natural death, got it?”

Bakke rubbed his head. “Whatever you say, Mother.”

The pair walked down the stairs and Bakke helped Yrena get seated in the family shuttle near Rascoe and Quark. As the vehicle lifted off on a heading toward Bowog Bog, Bakke climbed into a small, personal shuttle, fired up the engine, and set course for the city center.

Chapter 16

“Odo. Odo, are you here?” Rom whispered softly.

On a typical day, as most Ferengi likely would concur, the grand nagus is a highly conspicuous figure. He is, after all, the most important person in the entire Ferengi Alliance. His craggy face appears everywhere: on the planet’s blaring public media monitors; in the digital tabloids; on the commemorative gold-pressed strips of latinum available for a special inflated price in the Tower of Commerce gift shop. As such, his visage is instantly familiar to everyone on the planet, even tiny schoolchildren.

On an untypical day, with his face partly hidden by the upturned collar of an oversized cloak, and his conspicuous scepter of office left at home, the nagus still is recognizable.

Which is why his presence outside Frin’s Fabulous Fortune was making the tavern’s junior valet very nervous.

“What is the nagus doing out there?” Smoog asked his boss, Arno, the door captain.

Arno glanced at the figure standing just outside the portico. “He seems to be looking for someone,” he responded. “Or something.”

“Well, should I . . . I don’t know . . . ask him if he needs assistance?” Smoog said worriedly.

Arno shook his head. “He’s the nagus. Show him some respect. If he wants to pretend to be an anonymous man on the street, who are we to point out that he isn’t?”

Deliberately keeping their backs to the cloaked figure, the two disappeared into the tavern.

Oblivious to this discussion, Rom continued to study the entrance. He scrutinized a lamppost. It was tall. And thin. Like the shape-shifter. “Odo?” he whispered to it. “Is that you?”

He was sure—well, pretty sure—that this was the tavern Odo had mentioned earlier, the one he said he planned to “stake out.” But so far, Rom had seen no sign of him.

The lamppost, being a lamppost, gave no reply.

Rom turned and casually paced along the outer curve of the portico. “Odo, are you here?” he murmured softly as a muscular Gorn walked past him.

The Gorn paused and gave Rom a suspicious look. “Whaat did you call meee?” it hissed.

Rom gulped nervously. “Um, I said, ‘Odo!’ It’s a friendly greeting here.”

The Gorn’s faceted eyes were fixed on the Ferengi. “I do not wissssshh to be your friennnd,” it said. Then it turned and walked away.

Rom shuddered and moved a little closer to the door of the tavern. He was beginning to wonder if he should go inside. It might be safer. Of course, it also meant there was a greater chance that he’d be recognized.

As he debated the decision internally, he failed to notice that the carvings on the underside of the portico’s ceiling were shifting and then melting into a viscous gold liquid that flowed down a pillar. Directly behind the nagus, the liquid coalesced into a nondescript lump, and then a taller lump, and then finally stretched into a humanoid form.

“Why are you looking for me?” the form asked.

Rom spun around in terror, his open mouth wide as he prepared to scream—but the scream died in his throat when he realized that he was looking at Odo. His body sagged in relief.

“Why are you here?” the shape-shifter queried, his irritation evident. “I told you—if I’m going to find your brother, I have to operate undercover. I have to be anonymous.”

“I know,” Rom replied. “But I can be anonymous too.” From within the folds of his cloak, the nagus withdrew a very large hat, its billowy dome and oversized brim clearly intended to hide his all-too-famous face. Rom pulled it on, unaware that the outlandish chapeau made him look even more conspicuous than before. “Nobody will recognize me in this!”

“I see,” Odo replied. “Good plan, Rom, wearing the most attention-grabbing garment in the quadrant as a disguise.”

The nagus appeared confused. “But—”

“You don’t seem to realize that it’s impossible for the nagus to operate undercover. Everyone in the Alliance knows you.”

As if to prove Odo’s point, a pair of Ferengi businessmen chose that moment to exit the tavern. They seemed slightly inebriated, but that didn’t stop them from recognizing Rom—hat and all. “Sharp hat, Nagus,” shouted one of them, while the other waved.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter, Odo!” Rom said. “Don’t you understand? I need to help! He’s my brother! I’d never forgive myself if—”

Suddenly a bolt of energy zinged past them, disintegrating the nearby statue of a long-dead Ferengi financial hero. Responding instantly, Odo wrapped himself around Rom and leaped behind a pillar, carrying the Ferengi to safety with him.

Separating himself from the nagus, the shape-shifter scanned the area, trying to discern the point from which the disruptor blast had originated. Rom’s dazed eyes were fixed on the blasted statue. “That . . . that was Gubbin,” he mumbled, staring at the rubble. “When I was in school, he was said to be the wealthiest—”

But Odo wasn’t listening. He had spotted a small Ferengi shuttlecraft hovering just past the corner of the building. Confirming his suspicions, a second bolt of blue energy erupted from inside the shuttle.

This time the shape-shifter was prepared, and he quickly formed a large hole in the center of his body. The shooter’s aim was accurate, but so was his target’s instinct. The bolt passed harmlessly through the opening, only to pulverize a second statue.

Then the shooter seemed to lose his taste for target practice. Curving toward the horizon, the shuttle sped away.

Odo glanced down at Rom. “Are you all right?” he asked. Rom didn’t answer. He was staring at the second pile of rubble. But he didn’t seem injured, so Odo turned to leave. “I’m going to assume that’s my suspect,” he said. “Contact Quirk. Tell him I’ll get in touch with him when I find out where that shuttle is going.”

Rom pointed at the second pile of rubble. “Th-that was Mezzo. He was . . .” He turned to look at Odo, but the Changeling wasn’t there. All Rom saw was a Tarkalean condor, rapidly disappearing into the stormy distance.

Chapter 17

It looks really cold down there.

I don’t like cold. Nobody likes cold. What in Gint’s name is she thinking?

Quark suppressed a shiver as he studied the bleak landscape of Upper Bowog Bay through a viewport on Yrena’s shuttlecraft. He wasn’t impressed with his first glimpse of the region.

It’s not exactly a vacation hot spot.

In fact, nothing about it was hot. Located on one of Ferenginar’s northern continents, most Ferengi considered the climate in Upper Bowog Bay to be completely inhospitable. Even the precipitation was unpleasant, consisting mainly of graupel that fell in hard, sleety, nasty globs, as opposed to the more tolerable showers of Ferenginar’s southern regions.

Quark knew only two things about Upper Bowog Bay:

1. It was—or rather had been—the site of the infamous Bowog Dam, which mysteriously failed just days after its warranty expired.

2. It was the birthplace of Sluggo and Vorp, the renowned creators of Eelwasser, one of the most popular beverages on Ferenginar. The massive Eelwasser bottling facility was also situated in the region, conveniently located next to what Sluggo and Vorp had referred to as “The Source”: Bowog Bog’s myriad pools of fetid standing water, delicately flavored with the essence of native Bowogian eel.

Only a fool would invest in this region. Or a crazy person.

He cast a furtive glance at Yrena, who was sitting up front with her son Rascoe.

Definitely the latter, he thought. She actually thinks that when she completes her project, Reni’s Latinum Lyceum will be considered the place on Ferenginar to gamble/drink/indulge in all forms of carnal pleasure/vacation with the kids/hear great music/eat to excess . . . And More!

Climate aside, considering the astronomical expense involved in building a gigantic casino complex (from scratch!), Quark seriously doubted that anyone could pull off such a miracle, particularly not a fe-male.

But then he saw the construction site, and his jaw dropped in surprise. She did start without the permits! There’s a huge fine for that!

Of course, that was only if they found out. And what inspector would come all the way up here to check?

Directly beneath the shuttle he could see the footprint of the site, a shallow rectangular pit carved out of the region’s distinctive gray-green tundra. Scattered across one end of the excavation stood dozens of parked ground conveyers, deactivated digging machines, and pile after pile of building materials.

In the center of the site, Quark spotted the foundation of a building. From its central position, Quark judged it to be a future hotel. Just beyond that was a long, unfinished structure, perhaps a gaming pavilion, at least in Quark’s mind. The size was impressive. Quark imagined it would accommodate thousands of customers—not to mention all of their latinum.

The only thing that looked close to completion was a dome, gigantic and gorgeously gilded, rising from the earth like a particularly rare and succulent mushroom.

Is that an entertainment rotunda? Quark wondered, his pulse racing. I think it is! And I have to admit, it looks fabulous!

In the distance, he could see uncounted acres that had been cleared, presumably for shuttle and skimmer parking. Quark wondered if Yrena had plans for a transporter station. If it were his complex, he certainly would.

You could beam directly from the Tower of Commerce or a ship in orbit—and no need to even set a toe in the graupel. Perfect!

The shuttle gently landed near the dome, and Yrena rose from her seat. She approached Quark with a smug smile on her face. “So? What do you think now?”

“Well,” Quark said, releasing his safety belt, “it looks very . . . uh, interesting.”

“ ‘Interesting’?!” She burst out laughing, that same sharp barking sound that he’d heard in the tower. Truth be told, it made him a little nervous. “Is that all you have to say?”

Quark shrugged. “Okay, okay, I’ll admit it. It’s impressive. So far. But it’s a long way from finished, and there are lots of areas you don’t seem to have touched.”

“Do tell,” said Yrena.

Quark often was short of latinum, but never was short of ideas on how to acquire it. As he began rattling off just a few of the most obvious ones, Yrena suddenly held up one hand and reached into her voluminous flight bag with the other. “Here!” she said, shoving a padd into her nephew’s hands. “Start putting it down. Let your imagination run wild!”

Quark glanced at the padd and noted immediately that the device’s communication function had been disabled. He could write on it, design on it, create complex calculations on it—but he couldn’t contact anyone with it, nor could he receive messages. In other words, it wouldn’t help to get him out of the fix he was in, but it might keep him alive a little longer.

“Okay,” he said. “But, uh, what if I wind up contradicting some of your plans? I wouldn’t want to upset you . . .”

“So contradict me,” she said, leading him out of the shuttle. “Who am I—Gint? No. I’m just a businesswoman who wants to have the best super casino in the quadrant. And I know your reputation, Quark—that’s what you want too, isn’t it? Except you never had the resources to do it. Well,” she said, gesturing at their surroundings, “now you do, partner! Where do you want to start your tour?”

Quark looked around the complex, then quickly pointed at the rotunda. “How about there?” he said, unable to keep a little tremor of excitement out of his voice.

“How about there!” Yrena repeated cheerfully, threading her arm through his. “Let’s go!”

And they headed toward the giant mushroom.

Chapter 18

Bakke squealed in frustration and turned his shuttle toward Upper Bowog Bay.

It didn’t make sense! He’d fired his disruptor at the alien twice. Twice! And he hadn’t hit him either time! Okay, maybe he’d been overconfident with that first shot. The guy had been a sitting cephalopod! Or a standing one, anyway. But his second try had been dead-on—dead-on!—and yet, impossibly, the blast had curved around him. At least, he assumed it had curved around him. If it had gone through him—which was how it looked—he’d be an ex-pain-in-the-patook, right?

As he sped over Ferenginar’s rustic uplands, he attempted again and again to contact his mother and brother, to no avail. Their lack of response could be due to any number of natural phenomena, like solar flares, or an onslaught of ravenous polar toads. But the likeliest (and most aggravating) explanation was that they’d gone inside the nearly completed entertainment dome, which was specially shielded to prevent unmonitored communications from coming in or going out. Bakke had argued against installing security shielding at the facility; it seemed an unnecessary expense. But Yrena had insisted. “Our clientele will appreciate the extra sense of entitlement it will provide,” she’d pointed out. “There’s no practical reason to let the outside world—or the FCA—listen in on private transactions.”

She’d prevailed, of course.

“Computer,” he tried one more time. “Contact Mother.”

“Mother is unavailable,” the computer’s electronic voice responded.

“Contact Brother.”

“Brother is unavailable.”

“Oh, lizard lobes!” he cursed.

“Lizard Lobes is not—”

“Disregard!” he shouted angrily.

If he’d had hair on his bulbous head, Bakke would have pulled it out by now. Lacking that option, he expressed his mounting frustration by pounding his fists against the shuttle’s companel and emitting every colorful metaphor he could muster.

Pushing the small shuttle’s abated impulse drive to the limit, Bakke ignored the craft’s engine-monitoring device as it flashed dire warnings about pushing the drive to the limit. He had worse things to worry about. He was certain he would receive yet another clout on the head when he finally found his mother and broke the news that Smooth-face was still alive. Fortunately, Smooth-face couldn’t possibly know who he was. Or where he had gone. That, he hoped, would prevent Yrena from delivering a real pounding.

Still, time was of the essence. And he’d have been there by now, he told himself, if she’d allowed him to get a shuttle with warp capability. Or even one with full impulse capacity, instead of that wimpy “abated” drive. Then I wouldn’t be facing the risk of burning out the drive and crashing into some icy swamp in the middle of nowhere.

But luck was with him, and he finally saw the lights of the construction site ahead. Flying to his usual landing spot, he saw Yrena’s much larger shuttle parked nearby, right where he’d hoped it would be. He pointed the nose of his craft down and landed next to it. When the door panel slid open, Bakke leaped out. Three sets of footprints, barely visible in the accumulating graupel on the ground, told him what he needed to know. Ducking his head into the frosty wind, he followed the indentations to the entrance to the dome and hustled inside.

As Quark had suspected, the entertainment dome had a huge kitchen, where, Yrena promised, the very best chefs in the quadrant would be employed. Her description of some of the meals she intended to serve made Quark’s mouth water. He hadn’t eaten Gamma Trianguli Boa Alfredo since . . . well, actually he’d never eaten it, but he’d seen holopix of it in Gourmet Galaxy, and it looked amazing.

At the moment, however, Quark didn’t see any chefs, nor, for that matter, any foodstuffs. I’ll bet there’s nothing in those big refrigeration units over there, either, he thought. Without question, he was feeling quite peckish after his lengthy internment.

“Stay with your cousin,” Yrena said to Rascoe, and she walked away, toward the door under a sign that was flashing the word REFRESHER.

While she was gone, Quark strolled over to a bar area, which, he had to admit, was extremely inspirational. The barstools were situated in a way that would encourage ordering, while at the same time discourage dawdling at the bar. The better to get customers back to the gaming tables, he realized. Very smart.

Feeling on familiar ground, Quark scribbled notes on the padd Yrena had given him. Maybe I’ll incorporate some of these elements back home, he thought. Assuming I ever get there. He also noted several refinements that he knew would boost Yrena’s profit margin. That done, he wandered through an open door, and found himself in a large L-shaped room with a high ceiling, its walls covered with shelves. Long empty shelves.

Wow, he thought. What a great pantry.

“What’re you doing in here?” came a gruff voice from behind him.

Rascoe.

Quark wasn’t surprised. The lout had been shadowing Quark since they landed.

“I’m fantasizing that there’s something in here to eat,” he said, turning around to face him.

“You’re not too bright, are you?” smirked his shadow.

Quark glared. “I suppose you have a way to magically wish food into existence.”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Rascoe said, pointing to the far wall.

Quark walked to the end of the pantry, turned the corner, and found himself staring at a newly installed, state-of-the-art industrial food replicator!

“Be still, my heart!” the hungry Ferengi gasped in delight. But as he moved closer to inspect it, Rascoe’s large hand locked on to his shoulder.

“No one gave you permission to play with the toys,” he said.

“Oh, Rascoe,” Yrena said as she entered the room, freshly powdered and rouged. “Our guest is familiar with the operations of those things. I’m sure he’s aware that this replicator won’t let him do something stupid, like, for instance, create a weapon.”

“Me?” said Quark, effecting his most innocent look. “I’m just hungry.”

In truth, his only thought had been to program a bowl of tube grubs—but now that she’d implanted the thought of making a weapon of some sort, well, that seemed like a pretty good idea as well. Maybe something that would do double duty, like a meaty Antarean sausage. When rendered correctly, the meter-long delicacy, consisting primarily of ground Antarean tree beetles encased in targ intestine, was so dense it could be sharpened and used as a spear (which is why it had been a favorite Klingon field ration for decades).

Yrena, however, was thinking in a different direction entirely. “Let’s inaugurate the equipment by programming a little snack, eh? Let’s all have tea!”

“Tea?” both Quark and Rascoe uttered at the same time.

“Yes!” Yrena said cheerfully, punching buttons. “A nice pot of slimy peat tea and some finger food, like algae puffs, foraiga, groat cakes, some little Altair sandwiches, and—ooh—sea snail brûlée for dessert. I’m just addicted to that!”

Quark eyed Rascoe, who looked as dubious about the menu as he was. But food was food, and he was starving. As soon as Yrena piled the completed items on a serving tray, he took it from her and carried it to a table in the bar. Rascoe followed with another heaping tray, and Yrena brought the teapot.

“Well now, isn’t this nice?” she asked them as they all sat down.

“Yes, very civilized,” Quark responded, while thinking, Just so it’s not my last meal.

“I love a refined repast!” the fe-male said while reaching for a spoonful of aphid aspic to spread on her groat cake. “Dig in.”

With no further prompting, the trio began to devour everything on the table.

“I have some additional . . . mmpph . . . ideas about your menu—” Quark said between bites.

“Write it down, write it down!” Yrena said, slurping in her third brûlée.

Quark was downing the last drop of his tea, and wondering what tactics he could use to delay an impending demise, when Bakke came racing into the building.

“We’re in trouble!” he shouted, nigh hysterical.

Yrena and Rascoe froze, still holding their teacups. “What are you talking about?” his mother asked, looking calm in spite of the tension that had flowed into the room along with the icy wind.

“That funny-looking guy I told you about. I tried to get rid of him! I blasted him—and I’m sure that I hit him! But he didn’t go down! It’s like he was shielded or something! I couldn’t blast him again, because I was drawing attention.”

“So you came here,” Yrena said, her voice chilly.

“You dope!” Rascoe said. “You never did learn how to shoot straight. And I’ll bet anything the guy followed you here.”

“No!” Bakke said, defending himself. “He was on foot, and I flew out of there so fast, nobody could have followed me!”

At that, Yrena stood and walked toward the entrance. Her sons followed. Quark, feeling he had nowhere else to go, tagged along. As they stepped out into the frosty, wet Bowoggy atmosphere, she looked around. Nothing, it seemed to her, looked amiss.

“Perhaps you have escaped undetected,” she stated, “But that . . . person . . . will be looking even harder now. We have to be prepared in case he finds something that will lead to us.” Turning to Quark, she hissed, “Sorry, Nephew. It seems that we’ll have to terminate our plans while we take care of an impending problem.”

All previous tea-cozy compassion left her eyes. She jerked her head toward Quark and said to her sons, “Lock him in the construction shed.”

“Wait!” Quark yelled, attempting to back away. “I thought we were working together—”

“Partnership terminated!” she responded, leveling an energy weapon at his head.

Quark raised his hands. The bullies grabbed him and dragged him over the slippery ground. Rascoe unlocked a nearby tool shed, and they unceremoniously tossed the ambassador inside. As Yrena turned to go back into the dome, she called out, “When you’re finished with that, boys, come in here. It’ll be warm and dry, and we have a number of things to talk about.” Then she disappeared inside.

Rascoe glanced back at the shed and said, “I think we should kill him now, don’t you?”

“Be patient,” his brother answered. “I believe Mother wants him held in reserve, just in case. We can use him for target practice when she’s finished.”

Chapter 19

Twice, the Tarkalean condor had been forced to shake off tiny globs of ice that collected on the aubergine primary feathers of its wings as it circled high above the construction site. Navigating to this place through the heavy weather hadn’t been easy, and keeping up momentum while in pursuit of the much fleeter shuttle had, at times, seemed a ridiculous challenge. But even when the craft wasn’t in sight, the large raptor’s ability to detect wavelengths of light allowed it to maintain a sense of where the shuttle was heading. A straight line is a straight line, and allowing for the curvature of the land’s surface, the determined hunter successfully tracked his prey to its destination. Directly below, it could distinguish the outline of the shuttle, parked next to a larger vehicle. And judging by its infrared signature, it hadn’t been there long; the engines were still warm.

The predatory bird’s keen eyes initially caught no sign of the life-form it was pursuing, so it circled the site. At last the door to a domelike structure slid open and four humanoids emerged. One of them was the tough-looking Ferengi who’d been at Frin’s tavern—the fellow with the itchy trigger finger. A second, who resembled the first in a way that only littermates and siblings can, seemed to be arguing with its likely sibling. Behind this pair were two additional Ferengi: Yrena, Frin’s second wife, apparently no longer in mourning, judging by her colorful ensemble; and Quark, brother to the nagus.

As far as Odo could tell, Quark seemed undamaged, although there was no telling how long he’d stay that way. The bickering of the two brothers grew louder and louder, until Yrena uttered an even louder vocalization, and they closed their mouths. She directed a comment toward Quark, who shook his head defiantly. Then she pulled an elegant nano disruptor from her large shoulder bag and pointed it at his head. All signs of resistance vanished and the bartender raised his hands.

The two males stepped forward, each grabbing one of Quark’s arms. They dragged him, kicking and screaming, across the permafrost to a nearby shed and pushed him in, sealing the door behind him. Then they returned to the dome.

The great bird circled the area one more time.

Good. Quark is alone.

The condor emitted a sharp cry of victory: “HAWWW!” Then it changed the angle of its wings to increase the drag and decrease the lift. Making a wide, low approach, it dropped toward the frost-covered ground and landed, gently, behind the shed.

Turning its head from side to side, the imposing creature examined the back of the structure. It spotted a small hole, probably chewed through by a rodent of some sort. Poking its head into the hole, the raptor ruffled its feathers. Then the feathers, and everything they were a part of, melted into a viscous liquid that coalesced into a new shape—and slipped into the hole.

“This is worse than being in that basement closet,” Quark grumbled to himself as he attempted to pry open the door with his hands. He could see that he was inside a construction shed, but there was no construction equipment, nor tools of any sort, to be found. Just containers of smelly chemicals—and a tub filled with a nasty-looking granular substance that he couldn’t identify and didn’t dare touch. The only “tool” he could find was his shoe, which he removed and used to bang against the door in the hopes that whatever locking mechanism holding it might give way.

“Hopeless,” Quark spat out after a moment. He wondered if his captors planned to return and blast him. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but the alternative was even worse.

Sitting in here by myself until I starve to death.

Or freeze to death.

Shoe in hand, the imprisoned ambassador suddenly stiffened. A rustling sound from the back corner of the shed caught his ear.

Or get eaten alive by . . . something.

Squinting in the shed’s dusty light, he looked around fearfully, trying to determine the cause of the sound.

There!

A rodent’s head, poking out of a hole in the wall! And then the rest of the creature squeezed through, and sat facing him, as if assessing the situation.

What the—a Cardassian vole? It can’t be!

But it was, one of the same mangy, disgusting creatures that had infested the old space station.

When did Ferenginar get infested with Cardassian voles?

The rodent crept forward, its beady eyes fixed on Quark. Then it rose up on its hind legs and wiggled its ugly nose at him.

“Vermin!” Quark shouted, flinging his shoe in that direction. “Get out of here!”

The vole easily dodged the object, but rather than fleeing in terror, it continued to stare at Quark . . .

And then as Quark watched, the vole began to grow, its body lengthening, growing taller, fur melting into fabric—and the ugly little head morphing into a man’s head, one with a very familiar face.

“A fine way to greet your rescuer,” the man said.

“Odo!” Quark cried out, breaking into an ecstatic grin. He practically leaped into the shape-shifter’s arms. “I’m so happy to see you I could kiss you!”

“Please don’t,” Odo responded, gently pushing Quark away. “I just popped in to let you know I was here. I’ll be back in a while.”

Quark’s happy grin froze and shattered. “In a—what? Wait—you’re leaving me in here? No! No, Odo! Open the door—let me out!”

“For the moment, this is the safest place for you,” Odo explained patiently.

“Safe? What if they come back before you do? I think they’re planning to kill me!”

“I’m sure you’re correct,” Odo agreed, doing nothing to calm Quark’s fears. “But try to . . . relax. Take a nap or something.”

Then his body began to shrink and lose definition, re-forming into a small furry rodent. He ducked into the hole . . . just in time to dodge Quark’s other shoe.

Chapter 20

Near the base of the storage shed, a clump of graupel shifted and tumbled away as the head of a Cardassian vole poked through. Shaking particles of ice from its long, sensitive ears, the scaly creature squinted at its surroundings, focusing on the huge entertainment dome a few meters away. In a flash, the vole skittered across the permafrost, pausing when it reached the base of the structure. It rose up on its rear legs, turned its tapered yellow eyes upward, and contemplated the curve of the half sphere. Then the rodent’s lips stretched into a repellent smile, revealing a row of tiny, but sharp, incisors. With a twitch of its ratlike tail, it dropped to all six legs, and began to climb.

“I still think we should get rid of him,” Rascoe grumbled. “I could bury him under the footing for the hotel. After we pour the foundation, no one will suspect.”

Bakke glanced at his mother for input and saw her shake her head. His brother was impetuous, but, Bakke knew, he wouldn’t do anything without their mother’s approval. And she’d already nixed his “great idea” twice. Bakke was about to tell his brother to give the subject a rest, when an earsplitting bang resonated throughout the largely empty dome. The two brothers jumped to their feet and stared upward at the arched ceiling as they tried to figure out what had created the sound. But even before the vibrations had died away, a new series of sounds began: thuds, booms, and, most unnerving of all, the distinct sound of scratching. All of this clearly emanating from over their heads.

“What in Gint’s name—?” Yrena gasped.

“I think something’s on the roof,” Bakke said, pulling out his disruptor.

“Brilliant deduction,” his mother said. “But what is it? Can we pull up an image on the external monitors?”

“They . . . they’re not hooked up yet,” Rascoe mumbled nervously.

“You mean you haven’t hooked them up yet,” Bakke corrected, giving his brother a cold stare.

“I’ve been busy!” the younger brute said, staring right back.

“I don’t care whose fault it is,” Yrena shouted, stepping between them. “One of you needs to go outside and see what’s making that infernal noise, and make it stop. Now!”

“It’s your fault,” Bakke said, shoving his disruptor into Rascoe’s hand. “You go.”

“It’s your disruptor,” Rascoe retorted, attempting to return it. But Bakke backed away and refused to take it. Rascoe glanced down at the weapon in annoyance. Then an ugly smile formed on his face. “Fine!” he said, glancing at his brother. “It was yours. Now it’s mine.” And he headed for the door.

Outside, all was quiet—except for the occasional splat! of large, wet clumps of graupel as they slid off the curved surface and struck the ground. Rascoe scanned the dome cautiously. Nothing’s up there, he told himself, although he didn’t quite believe it. He began to work his way around the building, trying to keep an eye on the top of the dome while at the same time avoiding stepping in the growing piles of graupel. Every few seconds, he had to jump out of the way to avoid a new clump as it fell.

It’s cold out here, he thought. My arms are covered with dreb bumps. I’ll never understand why Mother chose this horrible spot to build her dream. Cursing silently, he staggered over one of the larger mounds.

After he climbed over it, the mound silently morphed into the shape of a large humanoid—one made entirely of ice. Which followed him for several steps. Then it reached out to tap Rascoe on the shoulder.

Rascoe spun around in alarm—and shrieked when he saw the graupel creature standing behind him.

“Looking for me, bud?” it said, its voice a gruff frozen rumble.

Rascoe shrieked again, then raised his brother’s disruptor, his hand shaking as he attempted to aim.

But the iceman yanked the weapon from his hand and tossed it several meters away.

“Hey!” yelled Rascoe. “That’s mine!”

The creature just looked at him. At least Rascoe thought it was looking at him. It didn’t seem to have any eyes!

“Was . . . was that you making noise up there?” Rascoe said, pointing at the top of the dome.

The iceman didn’t reply. It just stared at him with those missing eyes.

“Answer me!” Rascoe shouted. “I know you can talk! I heard you!”

But the iceman didn’t reply. It just stood there.

Growing braver, Rascoe’s temper finally overwhelmed his terror. He pulled back his arm—and launched his fist at the entity, connecting with a slushy splat! right in the creature’s belly.

“Ha!” Rascoe shouted. “How do ya like that?”

He withdrew his fist. Or rather . . . he tried to withdraw his fist. But the slushy graupel that had so readily given way to the fist now had frozen solid around it.

“What the— Hey! Let go or I’ll knock your ugly head off!”

The iceman didn’t say a word. And it didn’t let go.

“You asked for it,” the burly Ferengi growled, and he threw another punch, this one with the other hand, at the iceman’s nose.

Splat! For a brief second, Rascoe felt the satisfaction of having obliterated the creature’s face.

But then the graupel began to move, flowing over his fist and freezing into a new face—one that Rascoe’s fist was now part of!

Rascoe yelled in fury, and began to kick the iceman with his right foot—with predictable results.

Standing precariously on his left foot, his other lower appendage icily immobilized, it occurred to him that this creature was about to devour him whole.

Rascoe began to scream.

The iceman made a sound like a sigh. Then the creature seemed to melt, changing form, holding on to Rascoe as it evolved into a squat, rounded shape very much like a child’s top.

Which began to spin.

Around and around Rascoe flew, locked in an icy, spinning embrace.

Until the top released him.

The flailing Ferengi sailed through the air until he impacted on the wall of the construction shed with a blunt thud. The force of his body created a deep dent in the wall and shook the little building so violently that a huge pile of frozen precipitation broke loose from the shed’s canted roof and fell, burying Rascoe beneath it.

“Hmmmmph,” Odo said, morphing back into his humanoid form and observing the pile. He poked a small breathing hole into the space that he assumed must contain the Ferengi’s head, and proclaimed out loud, “One down, two to go.”

From inside the shed he heard a familiar voice emit a moan, then a curse. Then: “What the— Odo, is that you out there?”

Ah, still alive, the shape-shifter thought. But he didn’t bother to reply. He had more important things to do. He thought, Now would probably be a good time for me to check in with the authorities. Tapping his communicator, he turned toward the dome to contemplate his next move.

Chapter 21

“. . . and then the assassin fired this GIGANTIC energy blast at us. I don’t know if it was a hand disruptor or . . . or maybe a ship-mounted defensive device, but . . . it came from the direction of the shuttle—oh—did I mention that the assassin was in a shuttle?”

“Yes, you did, Nagus,” Quirk replied absently as he scrolled through financial crime files on his desk screen. “Several times.”

“Whatever it was, it was very powerful.” The nagus paced around Quirk’s office as he revisited the attack in his mind. “It reduced Gubbin to his molecular components. Mezzo, too.” He sighed deeply. “They deserved better.”

“I’m sure they didn’t suffer,” said Quirk. Considering they were both statues, he thought.

The nagus didn’t respond. He was still lost in thought about the incident. Then, after a moment, he said, “I wish Odo had let me go with him. I should have insisted. I’m sure I could have helped.”

“That would have been difficult,” Quirk commented as he double-checked a figure on the screen. “Seeing as he was . . . what did you say? ‘A really big bird.’ ”

“I know. But still—”

Suddenly a shrill chirping filled the room. Startled, Rom glanced up at the ceiling, as if expecting to see a Tarkalean condor hovering over his head.

“Relax,” said Quirk. “Just a communication alert.” The security consultant pressed the upper corner of his screen and a small comm window opened, revealing some lines of static that eventually resolved into Odo’s face.

“Constable—oh, excuse me—former Constable Odo! It’s good to see you in one piece.” Noting the puzzled expression on the shape-shifter’s face, Quirk explained, “The nagus was just telling me about that frightening encounter outside of Frin’s Fabulous Fortune. I’m happy to see that you survived. Do you have a report for me?”

“I do,” said Odo, his image fritzing slightly. “But I can’t talk for long.”

Rom looked up anxiously from across the room. “Is that Odo?”

“Shhhh,” Quirk said, glancing over his shoulder. He turned back to the screen and was about to resume the conversation when Rom raced around and tried to insert his face between Quirk’s face and the screen. Quirk responded by straight-arming the nagus to hold him back.

“But I need to ask Odo a question!” Rom insisted, pushing against Quirk’s restraining hand.

“It’s all right, Quirk,” said Odo. “Rom, I found Quark. He’s safe.”

“Oh! Oh, that’s . . . uh . . . wonderful, Odo,” said Rom. He leaned forward to study the onscreen image. “Umm . . . I was also wondering . . . how’s the visual feed?”

In truth, the image was a bit fuzzy, yet sharp enough for Quirk to see Odo roll his eyes. “It’s fine, Rom. I can see you both . . . although I still have no idea how this works. And no, don’t even try to explain it to me again.”

Rom broke into a broad grin. “Gee, that’s great! I actually invented something. Leeta will be so proud of me! I’ll have to contact a patent officer when this is over.”

Quirk shoved Rom out of his way. “You have information, Odo?”

“I’m sending you the coordinates now. You’re going to need a big paddy wagon for this lot, Quirk. In addition to Quark, there’ll be three goons. All part of the same crime family.”

“Three,” Quirk responded, surprised. The furrows in his brow deepened. “You’ve been busy.”

“I still am,” the shape-shifter replied. “I hope to be less busy by the time you arrive. I only have one of them on ice. I hope to have the rest of the family ready for company shortly. But try and step on it, will you?”

Odo signed off, and Rom studied the coordinates that he had provided. “That’s way up north,” he said. “The Eelwasser folks invited me up there once for a tour of their plant, but I said no. Too cold. Poor Quark. I’ll bet he hates it. But the important thing is, he’s safe!” Rom clapped his hands together and hopped up and down in excitement. “He’s safe! I’m going to get my brother back!”

Rom looked at Quirk, whose response was considerably more low key. He had just completed a series of inputs on his computer and was leaning back in his chair. Rom stopped hopping and waited for Quirk to say, “Let’s go!” But after a long moment of very little activity, he was still waiting. Finally, he stepped in front of the security consultant.

“Well?” he said.

“Well what?” responded Quirk.

“We’re leaving, right? I saw your security skimmer outside. That’ll impress them! Sooooo . . . let’s go!”

“Can’t,” said Quirk. “That little skimmer’s not made for the weather up north.”

Rom stared at him blankly, then said, “Well, okay. We can use my official shuttle. It’s parked in the back. It’s fast and tough and . . .”

“Forgive me, Nagus, but it’s a two-seater. Three if you wanted to get real cozy.”

“I don’t mind,” Rom replied. “Quark could sit on my lap. Or I could sit on his—”

“It’s not big enough, Nagus. Look,” he said, gesturing at his monitor, “you heard Odo. He’s found three dangerous, criminal Ferengi up there. And he found your brother. That makes four passengers. Plus our changeable friend, unless he’s planning to take the avian route home. And then there’s you and me. Accordingly, I have sent a message to an associate who’s in charge of the government vehicle pool. I told him we need a full-sized miscreant transport—I assume that’s what the constable meant by ‘paddy wagon’—so I can pick up everyone, and then drop off the miscreants at a Ferengi Acquisitional Educational Facility on the way back. The vehicle will be here in about half an hour.”

“A half hour?!”

“Yes. And by the way, I owe my associate a rather large sum for expediting my request. An invoice for your contribution already has been forwarded to your office.”

“But a half hour is too long!” Rom wailed. “Odo said to ‘step on it.’ The . . . uh . . . ‘goons’ could suddenly decide that Quark is no longer useful to them. I mean, you don’t know him. He’s not exactly the most ingratiating guest!”

“I suspect that it’s a family trait,” Quirk said softly before turning to look directly at the nagus. “Look, the situation is what it is. Why don’t you sit down and relax? Take a nap. Or sign in and conduct some important financial business—or whatever it is that naguses do these days.” Then he went back to studying the information on his monitor.

Rom stared at the security consultant for a moment with his lower jaw slack. Then he closed his mouth and tightened his lips in determination. “I . . . uh . . . I need to visit your ’fresher,” he said.

“Down the hall, just before you get to the back door,” Quirk offered without taking his eyes off his screen. “And please—take your time.”

Rom nodded and strode purposely from the office, down the hall . . . and then out the back door. Climbing into his official nagal vehicle, he entered the coordinates he’d memorized into the shuttle’s navigation system.

“I’m coming, Brother,” he said, feeling a thrill of excitement run through him as he said it. “I’m coming now. Next stop: Upper Bowog Bay.”

Chapter 22

“I don’t like this. It’s too quiet.”

Bakke glanced at Yrena. “What? A minute ago you said it was too loud.”

His mother was standing in the middle of the dome, her lady lobes tilted toward the entrance. She turned and flashed a nervous scowl at him. “I mean, it’s too quiet now, you oaf. A minute ago, I thought I heard Rascoe yelling at whatever it was on the roof! Now I don’t hear anything.”

“It sounded more like screaming to me,” Bakke muttered under his breath.

Suddenly, there came a tapping.

Tap tap tap.

The two Ferengi looked up, startled.

“What’s that?” said Yrena.

As of someone gently rapping.

Tap tap tap.

“Is that Rascoe?” she said.

Rapping at the door.

Tap tap tap.

“It can’t be Rascoe,” Bakke said, his gruff voice cracking midsentence. “He wouldn’t knock. He’d use the entry code and come in.”

Tap tap tap.

“Maybe it’s not working,” Yrena suggested. “Just like those external monitors aren’t working!”

“His fault!” Bakke said defensively.

Tap tap tap.

Yrena glared at him. “Listen to me, youngling. You need to go out there and see if that’s your brother. He may be hurt and need our help.”

“And what if it’s not him?” Bakke asked fearfully.

“Then . . .” Yrena paused meaningfully. “Then you need to take care of whatever it is.”

Bakke thought of suggesting that she take care of it, but then decided he’d probably get a clout on the head. So, instead, he said, “I don’t have my disruptor. Rascoe took it.”

“You gave it to Rascoe,” she said, putting her hands on her ample hips. Then she walked over to her flight bag and pulled out the compact nano disruptor. “And I’m loaning this to you. Now, go see who’s at the door.”

Bakke accepted it tentatively and got to his feet. He glanced once more at his mother, who impatiently pointed at the door.

Bakke approached the door slowly. When he reached it, he paused for a moment—then pressed the release.

The door slid open . . . and in walked the smooth-faced guy that Bakke had tried to kill earlier that day.

Smooth-face smiled at him. “Good to see you again, mac. I believe you’ve been looking for me.”

Bakke stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded. Then he growled, “My name’s not Mac,” and brought up the hand holding his mother’s disruptor.

Smooth-face sighed. “You gunsels never learn,” he said. And then, moving so fast that Bakke could barely tell what was happening, he grabbed the Ferengi’s wrist and shook the weapon from his fingers. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to wave your heater in someone’s face?” he said. “It’s just plain rude.”

“It is my mother’s heater . . . uh . . . disruptor, Smooth-face,” Bakke said peevishly, trying to yank his wrist from the alien’s grip. But the guy was a lot stronger than he looked. In fact, his hand had somehow transformed itself into a manacle!

Bakke gasped, but the strange being just smiled at him. “You know,” he said, “I really don’t like that name ‘Smooth-face.’ You can just call me . . . Constable.”

Bakke glanced helplessly at his mother, who suddenly began pawing through her flight bag.

Bakke’s captor quickly raised his free arm and strrrreeetttttttttched it over toward her. Snatching the bag away from Yrena, he pitched it onto the top shelf in the pantry, where it was conveniently out of reach.

“Sorry to take your bag,” he said, “but who knows what other goodies you’re hiding in there?”

Yrena looked at him, frightened, and started to back away.

“Why so far away?” Odo said, walking toward her with Bakke in tow. “Come closer.” He morphed his arm into a tentacle—complete with suckers—and pulled her into his arms, right next to Bakke. He studied the two Ferengi in his embrace. “You’ll make a pretty package for Security Chief Quirk when he gets here.”

“Wha . . . what are you?” Bakke sputtered, squirming in fear. Odo gave him a friendly little squeeze. Just enough to get him to stop wiggling.

“He’s a shape-shifter, stupid,” Yrena spit at her son. “No wonder you couldn’t hit him.”

“That’s right,” Odo said modestly. “And by the way—about that. You don’t seem to be aware that Ferenginar has laws against firing disruptors at people, even shape-shifters. And recently two Ferengi were killed with disruptors. Your local law enforcement is very keen on finding the responsible . . . perps.”

He paused, relishing the sound of the word. Perps, he thought to himself. I like that. I think I’ll start using it more often.

“Interesting fact,” he continued. “Did you know that every disruptor has its own distinct energy signature? And that it leaves a trace record of that signature in the cells of whatever its energy bolt may have hit? I wonder what we’ll find when we check the signatures in the bodies of those two unfortunate victims and compare them to the damage done to the portico outside Frin’s Fabulous Fortune?”

“I don’t have a disruptor,” Bakke managed to say, despite his face being held tight against his mother’s. “I told you, that one”—he gestured at the one lying near Odo’s feet—“is hers. And the other one—it’s Rascoe’s!”

“Shut up, you idiot,” Yrena growled.

Odo tilted his head to one side. “Call me naïve, but I think I believe you. You don’t have a disruptor. At least not at the moment.” He nodded toward the door. “But I saw one outside a short time ago. It looked a lot like the one you fired at me back in the city.

“But I catch your drift. You’re suggesting that you weren’t involved in those murders. That perhaps your brother—or maybe even your mother—is the one who used a disruptor to kill those people. Well, it doesn’t really matter to me which of you did it. You’re family. And in my experience”—Odo shifted the tentacle so that the faces of the two Ferengi had to look directly into his eyes—“the family that plots together, rots together.”

He had a cold, strange smile on his face, but it didn’t make him look happy—or even humanoid. The two Ferengi in his clutches stared at him fearfully.

“Now,” the smile said, “the only question left is what I’m going to do with you.”

The shape-shifter looked around the room, searching for something he could use to bind the two together. Suddenly his gaze fell on the food replicator in the pantry where he’d tossed the flight bag.

“Ah,” he said. “Let’s see what we can cook up, shall we?”

Chapter 23

I’m glad Leeta talked me into buying this model, Rom thought.

He’d set the velocity for full impulse, a safe but still almost-too-fast speed for a vessel traveling so close to the planet’s surface.

But this was definitely an emergency, and, he rationalized, I am the nagus.

When he’d acquired the vessel, he hadn’t anticipated taking it far—and hardly ever offworld—so its warp-two capacity had seemed a bit extravagant. The nagal purchasing agent, charged with helping to preserve the government’s latinum reserves, had counseled, “Only a fool would purchase more capability for speed than he can use,” adding, “As I once heard a hew-mon explain it: ‘Haste makes waste.’ ”

Leeta, however, in a way that only Leeta could, convinced him that this was the perfect shuttlecraft for him. “It’s so streamlined and fast, Rom!” she’d cooed. “And that Corinthian leather interior is soooo sexy. It’s you, inside and out!”

Rom didn’t believe that, of course. But he’d liked the way the words sounded when she said them. He’d tried to argue that it would cost much more than a traditional shuttlecraft. That’s when his beautiful wife had countered by whispering, first into his left lobe, “Every nagus is entitled to splurge now and then,” and then into his right, “Otherwise, what’s the point of being the nagus?”

Rom couldn’t clearly recall what had happened next, but apparently he’d notified the agent to complete the transaction, because the shuttlecraft showed up at the Residence the next morning.

He was still reminiscing, when suddenly the shuttle slowed, indicating it had reached the preset coordinates. Below, Rom saw a pair of vehicles parked near a dome-like structure, but he opted to set down on the opposite end of what appeared to be a construction site.

Now what? he asked himself.

He didn’t particularly want to get out and start wandering around looking for Quark and Odo. But it wasn’t just the obvious cold that gave him pause.

What if Odo hasn’t captured all of those goons yet, and what if I run into one of them? he worried.

And what is a goon, anyway?

Seated within the warm shuttle, he attempted to contact Odo’s comm. He received no response, visual or verbal. After a moment, he decided that he didn’t have much choice. He would look like a fool if Quirk showed up and he was just sitting here—waiting.

He’d have to get out and look for Quark and Odo.

Puffing up his chest the way Leeta always encouraged him to when he climbed onto a podium at official ceremonies, he opened the shuttlecraft door, stepped out, and slowly began to tread across the slippery white surface.

The temperature, as he’d suspected, was much, much, much lower than he’d have preferred. I should have thought this through and brought a thicker tunic, he thought. His family had grown up in Ferenginar’s temperate belt, where it rained a lot, but the rain never got hard and crunchy like the stuff he was walking on. Kicking some of it, he thought, There are piles of the hard water everywhere. Why would anyone choose to live here?

His family never had accumulated much latinum, but he suddenly felt grateful that they’d been able to avoid this climate. He knew, of course, that was due to his moogie’s firm hand in steering the family’s financial course along the Great River. If Keldar had insisted on being in charge, they’d likely have wound up living in a terrible area like this. Or, at the very least, on the wrong side of the river, where all the unsuccessful families, the failed investors and entrepreneurs, tried to eke out a meager living.

Rom rubbed his already frigid hands together and looked around. No one was outside except for him. And since Odo wouldn’t—or maybe couldn’t—respond to the summons of his communicator, Rom decided to try contacting him the old-fashioned way.

“Odo?” he said, his voice coming out as a squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “ODO?”

Better, he realized, but he’d have to shout even louder. The wind was picking up, and sharp little pieces of white stuff were hitting his nose. Graupel, he thought. I’ve heard about this, but I’ve never seen it before. On impulse, he stuck out his tongue and caught a few pieces on its fleshy surface. The icy substance melted immediately, and Rom resisted an urge to giggle.

Okay, maybe this frosty stuff would have been fun to play in as a schoolboy. For a day or two.

He walked through the construction site, periodically shouting Odo’s name. His feet were getting cold, and he noticed that he was leaving footprints in the piles. Shivering, he paused to assess the situation.

This is stupid. I’m stupid. Maybe I should just wait for Quirk in my shuttle. At least I wouldn’t freeze to death.

Then his thoughts froze on another possibility. One that he’d been trying hard to avoid.

I could go investigate that dome thing—see if anyone’s in there.

He shuddered. Somehow he knew that if the goons were anywhere, they would be in there.

But of course, Odo might also be in there.

And Quark.

Come on, Rom, he urged himself, trying to make his feet move in that direction. But his feet seemed frozen in place—and not from the cold.

In desperation, he let out one last plaintive wail, hoping against hope that he’d get a response: “OOOOOOOHHH-DOOOOHHH! WHERE ARRRRRRRRRE YOOOOOOOUUUUU?”

And then, miracle of miracles, he heard a muffled cry: “Heeeellllllpppp meeeee!”

Rom looked around, wondering where the sound had come from. “HELLLLLLOOOOO?” he called.

At first, he could hear nothing other than the sound of the wind. Then: “Leeeetttt meeee ouuuuuutttt!”

It seemed to be coming from a small shed that he hadn’t noticed before. Rom shuffled toward it, stepping around a large accumulation of graupel to get to the door.

“Is somebody in there?” he said, his lips close to the door.

“Rom?”

The Nagus blinked in surprise as he recognized the voice. “Quark?”

“Rom! Thank Gint! Open the door!”

“Oh! Oh! Hang on, Brother!” Rom shouted, looking around for something to use as a battering ram. But there was nothing in the immediate vicinity. He looked down at his cold feet, then began to kick the door.

BAM!

BAM!

With his concentration entirely on opening that door and freeing Quark, the nagus didn’t notice the nearby pile of graupel shifting. A few tiny chinks appeared in its smooth surface. Then some large pieces rolled down, leaving trails. Finally an icy hand burst forth from the top of the pile . . . followed by a head, topped with a smaller pile of graupel.

BAM!

BAM!

As Rom continued to kick the door, a pair of frost-rimmed, bloodshot eyes opened behind him . . .

“What are you doing out there, Rom?” came Quark’s voice from within.

Rom paused in his efforts, panting heavily from the exertion. “I am trying . . . very . . . unsuccessfully . . . to get the door . . . open!”

“Well, try something else!”

Rom bent over to study the lock mechanism on the door. “Hmmm,” he said.

“What?” demanded Quark.

“It doesn’t look very complicated. There’s no biometric sensor. There’s not even a keypad. I think it works with an ordinary desealer.”

“Can you pick it?”

“Well, I could if I had my old desealing rod.”

“I’m hearing a big ‘if’ in that response. Let me guess—you didn’t bring it with you.”

“Well . . . no,” Rom admitted. “It’s at the Residence. Leeta sometimes uses it in the kitchen . . .”

“She what?”

“But I might have something in my shuttle that will work,” he added with an enthusiastic smile. He stood up straight. “It’ll only take me a minute to get it, and—”

Rom stopped, startled. He felt something weird . . . something warm on the back of his neck . . . Something breathing on his neck?

He spun around to see a large Ferengi standing right next to him, its orangey skin nearly purple with cold, its features distorted with rage.

The nagus closed his eyes and began to scream.

Chapter 24

Bakke grimaced. “Ucckk!” he said. “This smells disgusting!”

“Really?” commented Odo. “Well, considering the vast number of disgusting things your species considers delicacies, I don’t see how this can be worse than anything else in your pantry.” He retrieved one last coiled skein of gray organic material from the food replicator’s dispenser window. “Now, be a good boy and show me your hands.”

Reluctantly, Bakke attempted to move his already bound wrists. The Changeling added an additional loop of the stinky restraints, pulling the binding tight as he did so. Then he wound a length of the material around the Ferengi’s plump midriff—twice—and carried it across to tie a figure-eight loop around Yrena’s equally large waist. With the remaining length, he added a number of loops to her wrist wraps.

Stepping back, Odo admired his innovative handiwork. Entwined back to back. Not bad, he thought. They can barely move, let alone get free from each other. He’d been concerned that using a Ferengi food replicator for security applications would have its drawbacks. Since it couldn’t be programmed to produce anything designated inedible, metallic restraints or rolls of unbreakable wire were out of the question.

So the Changeling had improvised. “Targ intestine makes a fine ligature,” he informed the pair. “A testimonial to the quality of your replicator. I’ll have to recommend it to Lieutenant Commander Blackmer when I get back to Deep Space 9.”

“If you get back,” the Ferengi male growled as he struggled to pull his wrists from the tangle of intestine. All he managed to do was poke his mother with his elbows.

“Oww! Stop that!” snapped Yrena, poking him back.

“No, you stop it!” snarled Bakke.

“Show some respect for your mother!” she barked, aiming an elbow at one of his kidneys.

Bakke grunted in pain as it connected. And he stopped squirming.

“Your transportation should be here at any minute,” Odo said, picking up a dangling end of the intestine to use as a leash. He gave the pair a shove toward the door. “Let’s go outside to greet it, shall we?”

Mother and son shuffled sideways with their heels banging together, doing a slow dance toward their fate.

Odo pressed the door’s release, and it slid open. A chill wind immediately engulfed the trio. Squinting into a flurry of icy crystals, the Changeling observed that Quirk had not yet arrived. However, a new vehicle was parked out there: a shuttle bearing the official symbol of the nagus, parked on the opposite side of the construction site. Tightening his grip on the leash, he pushed the bound couple into the open air, stepped outside . . .

. . . and heard a voice.

“Release them or I’ll kill the nagus!”

Odo glanced toward the shed where he’d left Quark and spotted the brute that he’d previously tossed into a heap of frozen moisture. The criminal was flashing a toothy snarl . . . and holding a shiny hunting knife against the nagus’s throat.

Well, that complicates things, Odo thought with a frown. The Changeling noticed that the thug was shivering violently, and that his skin had gone purplish. He’s in a weakened condition. Still, Rom is pretty scrawny. It wouldn’t take much effort to slice through something vital.

“That’s a bad idea,” Odo shouted. “I’m sure that nagus-cide is a capital offense on Ferenginar.”

“Not . . . not if they don’t c-c-c-atch me!” Rom’s assailant bellowed. “Now, LET THEM GO!”

Odo paused for a second to evaluate. The guy appeared to be on the verge of hypothermic shock. Yrena and Bakke were trussed up. Even if he dropped the tether, they wouldn’t be able to get far. I still have the advantage here, he thought.

And with that, he let go of the intestine.

“They’re free . . .”

The goon watched his mother and brother clumsily crab-step toward Yrena’s shuttlecraft.

“. . . Now, let go of the nagus,” Odo said.

Rascoe made a gurgling noise that sounded vaguely like a chuckle. Then again, he might have been trying to clear his throat. “Not . . . yet!” he managed to choke out.

And he began to drag Rom toward the shuttlecraft.

Not good, thought Odo.

With his heels skating across the slippery surface of the compound, and the knife so close to a major artery, Rom looked terrified.

Then, from inside the shed, Quark’s pathetic wail filled the air. “Is anybody out there? Help meeee!”

Abruptly, the nagus stopped dead in his tracks, triggering an angry tirade from the semifrozen oaf behind him.

Rom began to whimper, his voice quite pitiful. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what, you sniveling little dwisel,” growled his captor.

“Can’t . . . leave . . . my . . . brother!” Rom responded, brutally stomping down on his captor’s foot.

The goon howled in pain, and more significantly, he loosened his chokehold on the nagus.

Rom frantically began to struggle. Well aware of the knife in the thug’s hand, he reared his head back—and then threw it forward, striking like a cobra. Burying his teeth into the frosty skin of the Ferengi’s cold, bare arm, Rom chomped down. Hard.

All those years of Ishka having stressed regular hygienic sharpening paid off as Rom heard the thug shriek like a little lobeling.

And before Rascoe could regain the fortitude to overcome the agony, Rom slipped from his grip and took off, scrambling over the frigid terrain. Until he abruptly slipped, skidded, and landed face-forward in the frozen muck.

Had Ferenginar’s sun been shining, the prostrate nagus would have felt a shadow move over him. But the sun seldom shines above Bowog Bog. Rom sensed the shadow nonetheless. Quickly, he rolled over and looked up. Standing above him, with blood dripping from dozens of tiny holes in one arm, and a very large knife gripped in the opposite hand, the abominable goon sneered. His eyes radiated lethal anger as he slowly waved the blade back and forth, and lowered its tip closer and closer to Rom’s face.

Screaming and kicking, the nagus tried to get some traction and scoot away. Flailing about, making and destroying snow angels with his every move, Rom’s hand suddenly struck a hard obstacle. Which felt, oddly, like a disruptor.

With the blade only millimeters from his face, Rom grabbed at the object, picking it up in his frozen fingers. Fingers he couldn’t quite control. And that triggered the weapon before he knew what was happening.

BLAAAM!

The blast streaked past Rascoe’s ear, startling him to the point of panic. He immediately turned and ran, almost bumping into Odo, who had raced across the site when he saw Rom fall.

Rom didn’t see Odo. His focus was on the monster running from him. And he was thinking of the other monsters that had been released, all because of him. And of his brother, locked in that shed. Sitting up and aiming the weapon over his bent knees, he shouted, “EVERYBODY FREEZE!”

The words resonated throughout the windy construction site. Odo, uncomfortably close to the barely-under-control weapon, decided that it would be wise to do as the nagus said.

He was, however, the only one who seemed to feel that way.

For his part, Rascoe hightailed it for the shuttle, passing the struggling Yrena and Bakke on the way.

“I said FREEZE!” Rom shouted at the fleeing trio, to no additional effect. Disappointed, he decided that a warning shot might make more of an impression. Pointing the disruptor in their general direction, he triggered it a second time.

BLAMMM!

An energy beam sizzled past Yrena and Bakke, striking Yrena’s shuttle. It blasted a huge hole in the front panel. Still entwined in targ innards, the pair screamed and, with great difficulty, changed directions, heading toward Bakke’s smaller shuttle. By the time they got there, Rascoe already was climbing into the open hatch.

Rom smiled. Hey, I’m getting good at this. Especially considering I have no idea what I’m doing. He didn’t really want to kill anyone, but he knew this might be the only chance to stop them.

So he closed one eye and fired again, praying that no one died.

BLAMMM!

Yrena and Bakke froze in their frozen tracks as they watched the compact shuttle split in two. The portion carrying Rascoe flipped wildly through the air and landed with a splat in slushy mud. To Rom’s relief, his former captor pulled himself out of the wreckage and flopped into the frozen oozy substance. Yrena and Bakke, hoping to save themselves, spun around with even greater difficulty, and headed toward a rocky escarpment on the edge of the construction site, hopping, falling, and crab-walking the entire way.

Suddenly, Rom noticed that Rascoe had managed to get to his feet. Arbitrarily picking a direction, he started to lumber across the site. Past the dome. Past Odo, who seemed to ignore him. Past the shed. Heading for the hills.

Whoops! Can’t let him get away!

Rom took in a deep breath and pulled the disruptor’s trigger one more time.

The energy beam flashed toward the muddy brute, but hit the shed. With an echoing BOOM, it disintegrated the side of the structure. Pieces of construction debris flew in all directions, and smoke poured out of the building, mingling with falling graupel. Rom suddenly realized what he had done.

“Brother!” he shouted, dropping the disruptor and running toward the shattered shed. Fearfully, he peeked through the huge opening he’d made. “Brother?” Oh Gint, he thought, Moogie will never forgive me. I’ll never forgive me.

Then he heard someone coughing within the smoky wreckage.

“Brother?” Rom repeated hopefully, stepping inside.

In the far corner, huddled near the still locked door, lay a large bundle of rags. Which coughed once again.

Rom stepped carefully toward the bundle, taking care not to kick slivers of twisted metal in that direction. “Quark?” he said, his voice a near whisper. “Are you . . . alive?”

A shaky voice responded slowly. “I think . . . someone is . . . trying to kill me,” it said.

“Quark,” Rom said, running over to embrace him. “I . . . I . . . That was . . . me.”

There was a long pause, and then, finally, Quark said, “I should have known.”

Chapter 25

Odo walked the few meters to where Rascoe lay, half frozen, on the ground. The shape-shifter felt almost sorry for him. Four times he’d narrowly escaped being fried by Rom’s erratic disruptor blasts—ironically, with Rascoe’s own weapon—but this last time really had taken the fight out of him. His eyes were open, blinking slowly, but he didn’t move when Odo brushed some tiny splinters of the pulverized shed wall from his face. Odo didn’t notice any obvious injuries; apparently the Ferengi was too cold, too dazed, or too scared to move. He didn’t even protest when the shape-shifter reached down and took the knife he still held in his frozen fingers.

“Move,” the former constable said, grabbing the back of Rascoe’s icy orange shirt and standing him upright. Shivering, the Ferengi managed to remain standing, but he didn’t attempt to move on his own. So Odo walked him to the dome and shoved him through the open door. Somehow, Rascoe’s legs continued to work long enough to get him into the warmth of the main room, where he flopped down and curled into a ball.

Odo remained outside, waiting for Quirk’s shuttle. He glanced in the direction that Yrena and Bakke had hobbled a few minutes earlier. I guess I’d better go get them before they freeze to death, he thought. Still, he knew that they’d be easy to catch, and he was more interested right now in finding out what might have happened to Quark. But even as he took his first step toward the remains of the shed, he heard the hum of a shuttlecraft approaching, and turned his gaze to the sky.

The large official security vehicle—definitely the twenty-fourth-century equivalent of the paddy wagon he’d requested—looped overhead and settled near Odo. Then the entry hatch opened and Quirk appeared, wearing a heavy coat with a fur collar and carrying a phaser and several sets of heavy-duty manacles.

“You’ve come prepared,” Odo said when Quirk stood at his side.

Quirk just nodded, then tilted his head toward the two devastated shuttlecrafts. “Looks like someone’s had a bit of trouble,” he said.

“That,” Odo said with a near smile, “is the handiwork of your nagus.”

Quirk lifted his brow ridge in a questioning gesture.

“It’s an interesting story,” Odo stated. “And we’ll get to it. But first we need to check out the contents of this shed.” The two approached the blackened opening in the side of the structure.

“Another interesting story, I suspect,” Quirk said, eyeing the damage. They stepped inside to observe Rom and Quark, kneeling on the floor, wrapped in a tight hug.

Quirk nudged Odo, and they stepped back out into the wind. “I assume that fellow covered in soot would be your kidnap victim,” he said.

“Yes. I have one of the kidnappers here, in the dome. The other two are in the wind—” Odo pointed in the direction they’d gone. “Or rather, they’re out there, on the lam, but they won’t have gotten far. They’re bound together with some particularly unforgiving restraints. Without something like a phaser or a Klingon d’k tahg, I doubt they’ll be able to get out of them. Look for them with heat sensors. They’ll likely be the only warm bodies on the tundra. I suspect that by the time you find them, they’ll be more than happy to see you.”

Quirk nodded. “Well, unless they make the mistake of waking a pod of hibernating polar toads, I imagine they can wait a little longer. I’ll start with the one in here first.”

They stepped into the dome, and with little effort, Quirk cuffed the still shivering Ferengi on the floor. The security chief smiled at Odo. “Not bad work,” he said. “If you’re ever interested in an enforcement position, look me up.” He glanced back at the shed. “I should probably bring those two with me. That two-seater buggy of the nagus’s—”

“I’ll make sure they get home. You go rescue the other two thugs from the toads. I’ll come in to file a report providing all the details tomorrow.”

Quirk nodded and walked his first prisoner toward his vehicle.

Odo watched as it rose into the air. Then he returned to the shed. It’s time I got these boys home, he thought, looking at Quark and Rom. They’ll be more than happy to get warm, too.

Helping Quark to his feet, Odo and Rom walked him to the official nagal shuttle. Odo climbed in first and sat in the pilot’s chair. “I’m not sure that either of you are in fit condition to pilot a shuttle right now,” he explained.

The brothers hesitated.

“There’s only room for one of us in there,” Quark said, sounding irritated.

“You can sit on my lap, Brother,” Rom offered.

“We’re not children,” Quark responded. “I don’t want to sit on your lap.”

“Then I’ll sit on your lap.”

“No! I’ve been tied up and locked up and blown up. I want my own seat!”

Odo fired up the engines. “Gentlemen,” he said in his most constabulary voice, “I’m about to depart. Since this is the nagus’s shuttle, he’s welcome to come with me. Whether you both come is up to you, Quark.”

And a moment later, the shuttle lifted off, heading toward Ferenginar’s capital city.

Chapter 26

ONE WEEK LATER . . .

Should I tell him? Odo wondered as he stared at Chief O’Brien.

O’Brien took another long draw of his drink—something dark brown and foamy that looked thick enough to stand a spoon in. When he lowered his glass, the faint foam mustache that Odo had noticed earlier was even more pronounced.

Ah. There’d be no point, Odo thought. It would just reappear with each swig.

O’Brien placed the glass on a coaster, then leaned back and followed up on his earlier question to the Changeling. “But you must have enjoyed it, right? Participating in a real-life caper?”

Odo sighed. He’d explained this twice already, but either O’Brien didn’t remember or he didn’t believe him. “I’m not sure that I’d refer to it as a ‘caper,’ Chief. It was just a routine investigation. I followed the clues, just the way I would have in the old days.”

O’Brien shook his head. “I don’t know, Odo. Greedy people. Seedy neighborhoods. Murder. Kidnapping. A femme fatale masterminding the whole operation. Sounds a lot like a caper to me.”

“Yrena was hardly a ‘femme fatale,’ ” Odo insisted.

“Probably the closest thing to one on Ferenginar,” chuckled the chief, finishing his drink. He closed his eyes and smiled happily. “Nectar of the gods,” he said. Then he opened them and waved to Frool. “Another bottle of my special stout, please.”

“Coming right up,” said Frool, hustling to the stockroom.

“I don’t recall seeing you drink that in the past,” Odo remarked.

“I got Treir to order it for me while Quark was away. A pity you don’t drink, Odo. I’d treat you to one.”

“You can treat me to one,” said a new arrival, joining them at the bar.

O’Brien looked at him dubiously. “It’s stout, Nog. Not root beer.”

The smile on the young Ferengi’s face faded. “Oh. But it looked like . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Looks can be deceiving,” noted O’Brien. “Right, Odo?”

“Undoubtedly,” said the shape-shifter.

Although he wasn’t sure that he’d admit it to anyone here, Odo felt good being back at the station, and pleased to be considered part of the family, albeit a very motley family. It’s how he’d felt being a part the Great Link, but that feeling had faded when members of the Link scattered, leaving nothing behind . . .

Not even a forwarding address, as Quark had put it, a surprisingly apt observation for the typically insensitive bartender.

But here on this station . . . For some reason, the crew of Deep Space 9 still welcomed him as family. Even though he’d separated himself from them years ago. Odo wasn’t sure how long he’d stay among them this time. But for the moment, he was content to remain.

“Hey!” shouted Nog. “My dad! Frool, turn up the sound!”

The big monitor above the bar revealed an image of the nagus and Nog’s stepmother, Leeta, seated together on a large sofa in the Nagal Residence.

“Wow!” the Ferengi engineer said excitedly. “He’s being interviewed by that Federation News Service reporter!”

O’Brien squinted at the screen. “Wasn’t she here a couple months ago? What was her name? Eisla something . . .”

“Darvis,” said Odo, turning his attention to the screen.

“—Ferenginar,” the reporter was saying, “where a mysterious crime spree involving murder, kidnapping, larceny, and embezzlement has at last been brought to an end, thanks, in part, to the heroic efforts of Ferenginar’s own Grand Nagus Rom.

“I’m here at the palatial Nagal Residence for an exclusive interview with the nagus about the events leading up to the arrest of Yrena—widow of the nagus’s uncle, Frin—and her two sons. The arrest took place last week in Upper Bowog Bay, where Yrena was building a large recreational casino using funds that she had funneled from accounts belonging to the late Frin, and Frin’s two other wives . . .”

“What’s going on?” said Ro as she walked in and joined the men at the bar.

“They’re interviewing my dad!” Nog answered proudly, his grin practically as wide as Bajor’s Holana River.

“I understand that you arrived at the Bowog compound before Ferenginar’s Chief Quirk. So you were one step ahead of law enforcement. Some of your followers have started calling you ‘Ready-for-Action Rom’—”

“What?” Rom’s eyes flashed an expression of surprise and embarrassment, while Leeta beamed with delight.

“—and that you single-handedly destroyed Yrena and her gang’s escape shuttles—”

“Oh . . . oh . . . that was just . . .”

“—and that you broke your brother out of his confinement, while you were being assaulted by one of Yrena’s sons—”

“I just . . . it was an accident. I don’t really know how to . . . I was just eager to save my brother so . . . I acted on instinct.”

“His instincts are amazing!” Leeta interjected, unable to contain her pride. “Everything about my husband is amazing!”

The bar erupted in laughter. “You tell her, Leeta!” shouted Nog, but even he was chuckling.

“Who’s that?” asked Ro as the interview with Rom ended and the visual cut to Eisla Darvis talking with an unfamiliar Ferengi.

Odo looked up. “That’s Quirk.”

“That’s not Quark,” commented Frool as he raced by carrying a tray.

“Quirk,” repeated Odo, emphasizing the pronunciation.

“Oh—your cop friend,” said O’Brien. “Shh—I want to hear what he has to say.”

“And what information led you to believe that Yrena and her sons were responsible for the deaths of Financial Manager Hilt and . . .”—Eisla paused—“a bartender named Pug?”

“Well, I can’t take all the credit. Before I got involved, the nagus had engaged an outside investigator—a retired constable from Deep Space 9—to help him find his brother, who’d disappeared during a visit to our fair planet. As it turned out, the brother was a witness to Hilt’s murder. I believe Yrena kept him alive to use as a potential bargaining chip in dealing with the nagus.”

“Some bargaining chip,” said O’Brien.

“I understand you were able to rescue the brother.”

“Why,” Ro asked suddenly, looking at her friends, “does she keep avoiding using Quark’s name?”

“Bad blood,” O’Brien said, sipping his stout.

“She’s still mad at him,” confided Nog. “He wouldn’t give her a sneak peek at the Sacred Scroll during the embassy dedication. Right, Morn?”

At the end of the bar, on his usual stool, the big Lurian looked up from his drink and gave Nog a thumbs-up.

“It was the nagus who found his brother,” Quirk was saying on the screen. “He busted him out of the shed Yrena had him confined in. And Constable Odo provided the clue that allowed me to track the financial trail that led directly to Yrena.”

“And what was that clue?”

“Three words: Sludge Liquid Assets.”

“What are ‘Sludge Liquid Assets’?”

“A shell company that Yrena set up to cover her illicit transactions.”

“Well, bravo, Odo!” O’Brien said, gently tapping the Changeling’s shoulder.

Odo shrugged. “All in a day’s work,” he said.

“I knew you could do it,” Ro said with a smile. She glanced around the busy room. It was noisy with people having a good time. “Where’s Quark?” she asked. “It’s not like him to avoid the bar, particularly when he has this many customers. I’ve hardly seen him since he got back.”

“Office,” Frool informed her as he skittered past.

Ro turned to Odo. “Is he all right?”

Odo started to answer, then realized he didn’t really know. And he wasn’t one to speculate when interrogation was an option. He stood up, looked at Ro, and said, “Let’s ask him.”

Chapter 27

Odo and Ro found Quark bent over his desk, fingers flying as he entered information into his console. Padds of various sizes lay scattered everywhere in the room—on the floor, on the credenza, and, of course, on the visitor’s chair across from his desk.

“This looks familiar,” Ro said with a smile. “The last time I saw him this occupied with a project, he was plotting Embassy Dedication Day. You’re not planning another big party, are you, Quark?”

“No, I am not,” he said without bothering to look up.

“We haven’t seen you for days,” she said. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he said. “I’m busy. Thanks for asking.”

“Busy with what?” Odo asked. He noted that one padd was positioned very close to Quark’s elbow, where he could easily glance at it while he was typing. The shape-shifter craned his neck to look over the Ferengi’s shoulder.

Quark frowned and looked up. “It doesn’t concern you. Why don’t you go buy a drink that you’re not going to drink?”

“Your friends are worried about you,” Ro gently cajoled. “Morn has been asking about you.”

“Hmmph. He didn’t seem to worry about me worrying about him all those months that he was gone.” He paused and glanced up at the shelf where a small Ferengi action figure was on display. “Although I did appreciate his picking up a Dilb the Destitute for me while he was gone. And I already told him that,” he said, glancing back at Ro, “so don’t try to make me feel guilty.”

“You know I wouldn’t do that,” Ro replied softly.

“Well, I used to think I knew what you’d do,” he responded, turning fully toward her, “but I must admit that lately—”

Taking advantage of the shift in Quark’s attention, Odo quickly reached past the Ferengi and managed to pick up the padd. A look of recognition crossed his features as he studied it. “Why are you still working on this?” he asked.

“Why are you still here?” Quark said with a scowl.

Ro turned a quizzical glance to Odo. “What is it?

“He’s finalizing plans for that big casino—the one that doesn’t belong to him.”

Annoyed, Quark reached up, grabbed the padd, and returned it to his desk.

“I don’t understand,” Ro addressed Quark. “You’re doing work that will benefit only Frin’s wives?”

“Only Chartreux and Weede,” Quark said. “They get to keep the casino and split Yrena’s shares of Frin’s functioning taverns. Yrena forfeited her inheritance when the FCA heard about her illicit activities.”

“Yes, I can see how poisoning your husband might be grounds for a voided marriage contract,” Odo commented dryly.

“Not to mention getting your sons to commit a couple of murders,” Ro added. “But I don’t understand why you’re helping the remaining wives. Are they giving you a percentage?”

“No,” snapped Quark. Then, a few seconds later, he added, “They don’t know I’m doing this. Those ignorant fe-males didn’t even know that Yrena planned to rob them blind until Quirk told them. He’s going to put them in touch with a financial overseer to handle their business dealings—one who isn’t a crook—and I’ll give this to him when I’m done.”

Ro studied the Ferengi with new eyes. “But Quark . . . why?” she asked.

“Oh, his mother probably told him it’d be the right thing to do,” suggested Odo.

“No,” Quark growled. “Nobody told me to do it.”

“Ah,” reasoned the Changeling. “You just can’t stand to leave a project unfinished.”

Quark lifted his chin proudly. “It’s a damn impressive bit of work, if I do say so myself. For years, people have said behind my back that I’m small-time. That I can only run a small bar on an isolated space station with a captive audience. Well, I proved them wrong with my bar on Bajor. And this one—this place will be a real destination draw! Once I’m finished reworking these plans, it’ll be the best casino on Ferenginar.”

“But no one will know that you’re responsible for creating it,” said Ro.

“I’ll know,” responded Quark, patting his chest.

“You won’t gain any profit from it,” Odo said, turning toward the office’s door. “You’re getting soft, Quark.”

Quark looked horribly offended. “You just don’t appreciate art for art’s sake!” he said. “This is a work of genius—and that’s what all of Ferenginar will say when they experience it firsthand.”

“Hmmmmph,” said Odo, exiting the office.

Ro remained behind, smiling at Quark.

Quark looked at her suspiciously. “What?” he said.

She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure Frin’s wives will appreciate it,” she said softly. “Even if they never know about your contribution.” She leaned forward to give him a brief peck on the lobe, then quietly walked away.

Grunting, Quark studied the padd. Then he went back to entering information into his console. A minute later he stopped and glanced at the closed office door.

“Maybe I am getting soft,” he said to the empty room.

Then he shook his head in disgust at the very thought—and went back to work.

Chapter 28

My dear Nerys,

I have returned to Deep Space 9. Yes—with Quark. And things here are quickly returning to normal. Or perhaps a step beyond normal. If pressed, I might describe the atmosphere in the bar as jovial.

Perhaps that’s stretching things a bit. But by and large, most of the regulars seem quite happy.

Interestingly, that observation doesn’t seem to include Quark. Oh, he’s certainly happy to be home, particularly in one piece. But he’s not quite himself. You may find this hard to believe, but I suspect his recent experience has made Quark a slightly better man—if not a better Ferengi. And I don’t think he’s comfortable with that change, incremental as it may be. Time will tell whether or not it sticks.

I must confess—I did enjoy my brief journey to the noir side. It was good to employ some of my old instincts again. It would seem that Ro was right when she said I was the right man for the job. As you no doubt already knew.

Perhaps I’m not so different from one of those fictional detectives after all. Unfortunately, I live in a more complicated universe than Mike Hammer, or Philip Marlowe, or Sam Spade. And in a way, that’s a pity.

As for you and me, I am very happy to hear that you have returned from your retreat, and even happier to hear that you would welcome a visit. I relish the thought of spending a quiet day in the Bajoran countryside with you.

Farewell, my lovely. I will be with you soon.

Odo

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Once again we owe thanks and warm gratitude to editor Margaret Clark for her inspired suggestions and unflagging support, as well as the intrepid Ed Schlesinger at Pocket Books.

Thanks also to our hardworking friends down south, who are always there in a pinch: John Van Citters, Marian Cordry, and Holly Amos.

Finally, a tip of the fedora to the masterful writers who served to inspire Constable Odo (and the two of us), particularly Mickey Spillane, Raymond Chandler, and Dashiell Hammett, who taught us that a good story cannot be devised; it has to be distilled.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Paula M. Block and Terry J. Erdmann have jointly written two previous Star Trek: Deep Space Nine e-book novellas: Rules of Accusation and Lust’s Latinum Lost (And Found). Their most recent nonfiction work, Labyrinth: The Ultimate Visual History, was the recipient of the Independent Publisher Book Awards’ 2017 bronze medal for best coffee table book. They also are the co-authors of the nonfiction titles Star Trek Costumes: Five Decades of Fashion from the Final Frontier, 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. While director of licensed publishing for Paramount Pictures, Paula was co-editor of Pocket Books’ short story series Star Trek: Strange New Worlds. During his lengthy 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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Table of Contents

- Dedication
- Historian’s Note
- Epigraph
- 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
- Acknowledgments
- About the Authors
- Copyright