Vectors

by Dean Wesley Smith

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I’ve never been more serious,” Quark said. “And remember, you’ll do that every time you sit on my bar.”

  “You could have told him that sitting on the bar wasn’t allowed, brother.” Rom had apparently come out of their quarters. He wore a hat the Volian dressmaker had made him. It was made of some stretchy black material and molded itself to Rom’s skull. It made his head look smaller, but at least it hid his ears.

  “I would have thought sitting on the bar would be an obvious mistake, wouldn’t you?” Quark asked.

  “Actually, no,” Rom said. “Rules are easier to follow if they’re clear.”

  “Like not spilling things on the customers?”

  “Are you ever going to forget that?” Rom asked.

  “Not as long as you wear that silly hat.” Quark brought the glass around back and set it beside Nog. “And wash this too, while you’re at it.”

  Nog jumped off the bar, picked up the glass and started for their quarters.

  “I want that bar shiny within the hour!” Quark called after him.

  Nog didn’t respond. He disappeared into the darkness as if he hadn’t heard.

  “I mean it, Rom,” Quark said. “I want that bar cleaned in the next hour—”

  “I’ll do it,” Rom said.

  “—by Nog. He has to learn too.” Quark sighed and surveyed the bar. He hated this quiet. The Cardassians were panicked and Gul Dukat had ordered that no more ships of any type could dock on Terok Nor. So not only were the Cardassians dwindling, thanks to disease and general fear, but the others who came through here, the suppliers, traders, and shadier types weren’t appearing either. Quark’s supply of Saurian brandy was getting low, and so were some of his more popular but hard-to-find items.

  Rom scratched the top of his head. “Brother, do I have to wear this hat? It itches.”

  “Yes, you have to wear the hat,” Quark snapped. Then he lowered his voice. “I can’t have you serving customers with that blister on your ear.”

  Rom’s hand went involuntarily to his right ear and Quark turned away in disgust. Nothing, ever, would get the memory of that out of his brain. Rom said it didn’t hurt, but it was the ugliest thing Quark had ever seen. It served Rom right for the mistakes he had made earlier—and for not telling Quark that he was allergic to Jibetian beer.

  Who knew what that horrible mixture of fluids had done to Rom’s ears, anyway? The ears of Ferengi were their most sensitive spot. If an allergic reaction was going to start, it would start there. And Rom’s allergy to Jibetian beer was bad enough, apparently, to have put him in sickbay on a freighter when he was a young man. Of course, Quark had been long gone by then and hadn’t known about it. And Rom, typically, hadn’t bothered to tell him, even when he knew he’d be working around the stuff.

  “There aren’t that many customers, brother,” Rom said. “Perhaps it would be better if you waited on them yourself.”

  “You’re right,” Quark said. “Perhaps it would be better. Then I wouldn’t have to pay you.”

  “But brother, how will Nog and I live?”

  “Good question,” Quark said. “And the answer is not very well if you refuse to do the work you’re assigned. Now, go see if those tables need refills.”

  Rom tugged the hat. Quark could see the blister as an added lump on Rom’s ear. Quark grimaced in distaste. How the Volian had managed to make a hat while looking at that ear was beyond Quark. And of course, Quark had had to pay for it. Rom didn’t have any latinum yet; Quark was keeping track of all of these expenses in his ledger, but he had no idea how expensive the whole proposition was going to be. Rom had arrived—with Nog—and then the bar’s business had dropped off. Who knew how much an eleven-year-old would eat? And constantly. It was as if he was going to grow as tall as a Cardassian. Or more likely, as if Rom hadn’t fed him well before.

  Rom reached the first table. Three Cardassians sat there, bent over their glasses as if their posture would protect them from the virus floating around the station. One of the Cardassians shook his head as Rom spoke to him. Rom smiled and bobbed a little, then backed away.

  He stopped at the second table. There the Cardassian, one of the pilots who had poured liquor on Rom, said in a loud voice, “If you’re trying to protect your skull from getting drenched, you’d better make sure that hat is waterproof.”

  “No, actually,” Rom said. “I’m allergic to Jibetian beer and—”

  “Rom!” Quark shouted.

  “—I break out—”

  “Rom!”

  “—so I’m wearing this hat—”

  “Rom!”

  Rom looked up. “Brother, I—”

  “One more word,” Quark said, “and I will fire you.”

  Rom put a hand to his mouth. The Cardassian laughed. Rom made his way through the tables and leaned across the bar.

  “I’m sorry, brother,” he whispered. “But if I can’t talk, how can I take orders?”

  “One more word about the ear,” Quark said slowly, as if he were speaking to a child. “Make up a story about the stupid hat. A story that doesn’t involve pus.”

  “Sorry, brother,” Rom said.

  Nog came out of the quarters, clutching an earbrush in his left hand. Quark’s earbrush. His best earbrush, the one with the real scagsteeth bristles.

  “Nice try,” Quark said, “but you use your own brush.”

  “He doesn’t have one, brother.”

  “Then he can use yours,” Quark said.

  “He does anyway.”

  That was it. That was all it took. Quark’s stomach actually somersaulted.

  “Or I did,” Nog said, “until Dad got that—”

  “Enough!” Quark shouted. “Enough! No one is ever going to mention that again. Do you hear me? No one!”

  All of the Cardassians stared at him as if he had gone crazy. The second group, the one that included the pilot that had been harassing Rom, seemed a bit bleary-eyed, and Quark realized they were drunker than he had initially thought they were. Getting them out of the bar would be difficult. Not that it mattered. He hardly had anyone in the bar as it was.

  “I heard you, brother,” Rom said.

  That brought Quark back to himself. He turned toward Nog. “You, young man, you put my earbrush back and never touch it again. I don’t share earbrushes with anyone, and I don’t let just anyone touch them.” Then he glared at Rom. “How could you? Not buying your own son an earbrush.”

  “He had one,” Rom said. “He forgot it when we left Ferenginar, and I—”

  “Didn’t have enough latinum to buy him a new one, I know,” Quark said. “Believe me, I know.”

  He shook his head. How did it always end up that he was the one who paid for everything? He sighed.

  “Get yourself an earbrush, Nog, but for now, use your Dad’s.” Then Quark thought of that blister, and all the germs it carried. “Never mind. Don’t after all. Get a cleaning cloth. But I still want the bar spit-polished. You understand?”

  “You want me to spit on it?” Nog asked.

  “No,” Quark said. “It’s a military term. I just want it so polished that it shines. Is that clear?”

  Nog nodded. Why did everything become an impossible task with these two? Running the bar was suddenly three times harder.

  The first group of Cardassians got up and left their tables, mumbling something about sleep. The second group was still huddled over their drinks. He could barely see the third group, but they seemed to be deep in conversation.

  Customers leaving and none entering. Things couldn’t get any worse.

  Quark took a padd. He would inventory his alcohol one last time, and hope it lasted—of course, with this drop in business, it would last easily. He glanced at Rom.

  “Just go away,” he said.

  “But brother, I haven’t asked the other table if they wanted more to drink.”

  “Ask them, and then go away.”

  “W
here are the cleaning cloths, uncle?” Nog asked.

  Five times more work, Quark thought. At least.

  Rom walked over to the last table. The drunken Cardassians at the second table cat-called him in soft tones. Quark didn’t pay attention to what they were saying. He told Nog where the cloths were and was about to get back to his inventory when a Cardassian at the third table stood up.

  He was green, like so many others had been in the last few days. Quark knew now that that was the beginning of the disease. He had been denying service to anyone who was green, but apparently the Cardassian had changed shades while he was in here.

  The Cardassian raised a hand, looked at Rom, and toppled over backwards. His companions didn’t seem to notice. Neither did the drunks at the next table.

  Quark walked over. The Cardassian was on his back, moaning, a hand on his stomach. The other three at his table had passed out but they, at least, were a normal gray.

  “Brother,” Rom said. “We need to call for help.”

  “Oh no we don’t,” Quark said.

  “But, he’s—”

  Quark put a hand over Rom’s mouth. “I’m going to ban you from ever speaking in this place again.”

  “Bashender?” One of the Cardassians at the other table said. “You got any blood wine?”

  “Yes,” Quark said, even though what he had probably wasn’t any good. He just didn’t want the Cardassian looking at him.

  “Get me shome,” the Cardassian said.

  “Nog!” Quark shouted. “Blood wine?”

  “What?” Nog asked.

  “Blood—oh, never mind.” Quark turned to Rom and said very softly, “Stay right here, and cover his face.”

  “With what?” Rom asked, but by then Quark was already gone. He got the blood wine, and brought it back to the drunks.

  “You know,” he said to them, “you gentlemen look like you could use a free hour in a holosuite. Why don’t you come with me?”

  “Free?” Rom asked. “Brother, have you lost your mind?”

  “What did I say to you about talking?” Quark snapped. He helped the Cardassians up, and guided them away from the sick Cardassian. He was careful to keep their backs to him, by talking to them the whole way, expounding the virtues of the various programs, hoping that Nog wasn’t listening too closely to some of the programs.

  He got them up the stairs and into one of the suites, the door closed behind them. Then he came back down the stairs.

  The Cardassian’s companions had well and truthfully passed out.

  “What should we do?” Rom asked.

  “Take his feet,” Quark said.

  “We’re carrying him to the medical section?”

  “Are you nuts?” Quark asked. “That’s what medical people do.”

  “Then why aren’t you calling them?”

  “Why are you still talking?” Quark asked. “Pick up his feet.”

  Rom walked to the Cardassian’s booted feet. “Can we get this disease?”

  “If anyone can, you can,” Quark mumbled.

  “What?” Rom asked.

  “No, we can’t,” Quark said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because we would have had it by now.”

  “They don’t have it,” Rom said, looking at the three passed out at the table.

  “Ferengi don’t get Cardassian diseases,” Quark said, although he had no idea if that was true.

  “Oh,” Rom said. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “All right, then,” Rom said, and crouched. He grabbed the Cardassian’s feet and lifted them.

  “Nog,” Quark said. “Keep a lookout. Let me know if you see any Cardassians or Odo.”

  “Odo?” Nog asked.

  “The obnoxious shape-shifter who has been harassing me”—then Quark realized that Odo hadn’t been in the bar in almost a week. “Never mind. Just let me know if you see anyone.”

  “All right,” Nog said, and bent over the bar, continuing his polishing.

  “At the door, Nog,” Quark said. “Go to the door. Like a lookout.”

  “Oh,” Nog said. “You didn’t say that.”

  “What do I have to do? Put it in writing?”

  “That might help,” Rom said.

  “Shut up.”

  Nog scrambled to the door. He stood there like a small sentry, looking just like Rom had at that age. Sincere, honest, clueless. Quark sighed. He hoped Nog understood what he was looking for.

  “Brother . . .” Rom said, still holding the Cardassian’s feet.

  Quark nodded. He picked up the Cardassian by the armpits, and nearly staggered under the weight. Who knew that Cardassians were so heavy? Or that they smelled like this? Up close, the Cardassian’s green skin looked even more noxious. His scales were flaking. Quark’s stomach, already queasy thanks to Rom’s ear blister, threatened to revolt.

  “I don’t know how much longer my back can take this, brother,” Rom said.

  Quark didn’t know how much longer his stomach could take it either. “All right,” he said, “here goes.”

  He stumbled backward, kicking a chair as he went. The Cardassian’s butt dragged on the ground, his uniform leaving a polished streak mark on the dirty floor.

  “Everything I do creates more work,” Quark mumbled.

  “What?” Rom said.

  “Nothing. Just lift him higher.”

  “I can’t, brother.”

  “You could if you weren’t holding his feet.”

  “What do you suggest?” Rom asked. “His knees?”

  They were halfway to the door. Quark wanted this guy out of the bar as quickly as possible. If he made Rom switch positions, quickly might not happen.

  “No,” Quark said. “Let’s just keep going.”

  At that moment he backed into another table. Pain ran along his spine and he bit back a curse.

  “Are you all right, brother?” Rom asked.

  “Fine,” Quark said, and moved around the table. Why did he have so much furniture in here in the first place? What had he been thinking?

  The strain on his arm muscles was almost too much. He felt sweat run down the side of his face, get caught on his lobe, and work its way into his ear. It was his own fault for thinking the day couldn’t get any worse.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Nog was still at the door, looking out into the Promenade. Apparently he didn’t see anything, or he would have said so. Right?

  “Nog,” Quark whispered. “Is it clear?”

  “What?”

  “The Promenade. Is there anyone there?”

  Nog took a step farther out, which did nothing to bolster Quark’s confidence. Then he turned back to Quark. “Yes.”

  Quark nodded at Rom. “This is the last leg,” Quark said.

  “I hope so,” Rom said. “Is it my imagination or is he beginning to smell worse?”

  It wasn’t Rom’s imagination. The Cardassian was beginning to smell like a Klingon meal made by a bad cook. Quark moved as fast as he could. He was still looking over his shoulder as he went through the doors. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Nog. Or maybe it was.

  The Promenade was mostly empty. The doors to the restaurants and stores were open, but there were no clients. The Volian sat in the window of his tailor’s shop, working on an outfit, but he didn’t appear to be looking up. Quark thought he saw something shimmer near the door to the bar, but when he focused on it, he saw nothing at all.

  “Clear,” he whispered.

  “What?” Rom asked.

  “Is that blister making you deaf?” Quark snapped.

  “I hope not.” Rom brought a hand to his ear, and the Cardassian tipped sideways. The Cardassian’s foot bounced loudly on the floor. Quark nearly collapsed under his weight.

  “Will you do your job?” Quark snapped. “Pick up the foot. Pick it up.”

  “Where are we going with him?”

  “Just behind that post,” Quark said, nodding in the opposite
direction from the Volian’s store. They were getting close to the second floor balcony, but he didn’t see anyone there either. And he would have to take the risk.

  They also couldn’t leave a polished streak running from the Cardassian to the interior of the bar.

  “Wait!” Quark said. “Nog, grab the Cardassian.”

  “Me?”

  “Do you see anyone else named Nog?”

  Nog came over, rubbing his hands together. His small face was squinched in an expression of disgust. “Where do you want me to hold him?”

  “Where do you think?” Quark asked. “He can’t be touching the ground.”

  Nog gave him the most pitiful expression Quark had ever seen. “I can’t.”

  “You will or I’ll make you clean the bar with your head skirt every day this week.”

  “You can’t do that!” Nog said. “It isn’t sanitary.”

  “Then I’ll make you sanitize it after you’re done.”

  “Don’t underestimate him, son,” Rom said. “Remember the drinks.” And he reached for his ear.

  “No!” Quark said too late. The foot bounced again, but this time Nog had grabbed the Cardassian’s midsection.

  “I want to go back to Ferenginar,” Nog said. “Maybe I can live with Moogie.”

  Rom struggled to reach the foot without dropping the other one. Quark thought his arms would break.

  “Moogie wouldn’t treat me like this.”

  “Moogie would hide you in a closet,” Quark said. “She has dreams of finding a better mate, and the last thing she needs is a grandson hanging around so that people know her age.”

  Rom got the foot. He nodded. “I promise I won’t drop it again.”

  “Good,” Quark said. “Or Narat will think broken ankles are part of this disease.”

  “You think I broke his ankle?” Rom said. “I didn’t mean to. I mean—”

  “No, I don’t think you broke his ankle,” Quark said. “But I might break yours soon.”

  They carried the Cardassian into the Promenade. Their footsteps echoed on the floor. Quark had never heard the Promenade echo before.

  It was only a few meters to the post Quark had seen, but it felt like they had to travel light-years. When they reached it, and Quark gave the okay, all three dropped him at the same time. It sounded as if something exploded on the Promenade.