Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: Lust's Latinum Lost (and Found)

by Paula M. Block

  I’ll never get used to talking to Gallamites, the Ferengi thought. He plastered on a polite, business-as-usual smile. “Oh, hi there, Cordray. Long time . . . no see!”

  “Quark!” The Gallamite’s prim expression blossomed into a toothy grin. “I was just thinking about you!” A synapse fired an electrical charge from deep inside his cortex, backing up his statement. “We’ve finalized our catalog of new releases, and seeing as you’re one of our best customers—”

  “Great! Great! That’s what I was calling you about. I . . . uh . . . I hear you have a new sequel to Vulcan Love Slave. I’d love to hear the details.”

  “A new sequel?” Cordray’s face wrinkled into apparent confusion as the currents in his brain danced briefly and then went dark. “No. There’s nothing like that on the schedule. Nothing past VLS Volume Three.”

  “Are you sure? I thought I heard something—”

  The Gallamite shook his head, giving Quark a nice view of cerebral fluid sloshing against the inside of Cordray’s braincase. “I haven’t heard a thing about a new sequel, and obviously it would be very high profile.” His hemispheres throbbed briefly. “Still, I suppose it could be at the negotiation stage. You know Mister Broht—he keeps the big projects confidential until he gets every legal terabyte in the contract locked up.”

  “A wise man,” observed Quark. “Listen, do you think it’d be possible for me to talk to him? I might be interested in locking up the distribution rights—assuming the project comes to fruition, of course. It would be worth his while.”

  Cordray responded with another smile and an accompanying flash of neurons. “I wish I could help, Quark, but Mister Broht is off-planet. He’s attending Holo-Palooza on Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet.”

  “Holo . . . what?”

  Cordray chuckled. “Odd name, isn’t it? I think some Terran came up with it a century ago and it stuck. Terrans!” He rolled his eyes. “It’s the annual holonovel sales conference,” he explained. “Quite a big deal. Mister Broht will be gone all week. Should I have him contact you when he gets back?”

  “No,” Quark murmured, his mind working quickly, albeit less obviously than the Gallamite’s. “I have a better idea.”

  Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet? Quark frowned as he exited his office and hustled down the long corridor to the bar. That’s a curious place to announce the most anticipated holonovel of the decade. Once one of the most popular vacation spots in the Alpha Quadrant, the aging resort had fallen out of favor with discriminating pleasure seekers as more capital-rich pleasure worlds like Risa cornered the market.

  Then came the Borg incursion of 2381. With lovely Risa one of many worlds devastated in the war, Wrigley clearly had an opportunity for a comeback. But how much could they have upgraded in a few short years?

  He shrugged. He’d find out when he got there. It’s just too bad, he thought, that my idiot brother isn’t working for me anymore, because I need a flunky to carry my luggage. Maybe Nog . . . ?

  But no. Lieutenant Commander Nog was otherwise occupied these days. Well, fine. Who needed him?

  Quark drummed his fingers on the surface of the bar as he studied his employees, all still in “keep busy” mode. He hated to travel alone. Then, abruptly, he began to smile. Let’s find out whether Ishka’s friend educated her offspring in the virtues of sucking up to the boss.

  “Shmenge,” he called, effectively snapping the young Ferengi to attention. “Come here.”

  Shmenge practically flew to the bar. “Yes, sir,” he said, straightening his jacket.

  “I have a lucrative business opportunity for you to contemplate. How would you like to accompany me to a conference on Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet?”

  “Accompany . . . you?” Shmenge gasped. “I . . . Of course! It would be my pleasure, Mister Quark!” He was almost beside himself with excitement.

  “Just so you understand, Shmenge, this is not a pleasure trip,” Quark said. “It’s a business trip for me and, uh, an educational field trip for you.”

  Shmenge nodded his head eagerly. “Educational. Okay. Good! I’m ready! When are we going?”

  At the far end of the bar, Broik and Frool were observing this exchange with obvious amusement; they’d worked for Quark long enough to know when the boss was working an angle. Quark shot them a daggerlike glare. “Did you need something, gentlemen?”

  Broik shook his head and transferred his attention to a stack of drink coasters that needed straightening. Frool quietly drifted toward the tongo table, dishrag in hand, although what he was going to do with it over there was unclear.

  “As I was saying,” Quark said, “seeing as this is part of your training, you’ll need to reimburse the bar for your time away from the job, plus cover your own expenses. And maybe a few . . . miscellaneous incidentals.” Smenge’s look of excitement dulled noticeably at Quark’s comments but brightened again at the ambassador’s next statement: “And by the time we come back, you’ll be well on the road to becoming a successful businessman!”

  At this point, Quark extended his hand toward the lad, palm upward. Shmenge started to reach for it, fully intending to pump it gratefully, then froze in mid-gesture at Quark’s darkening expression. A look of enlightenment blossomed in his eyes, and he dug into his pocket to pull out his credit chip. He set it tentatively on Quark’s palm.

  “You’re a quick study,” Quark said with a smile, popping the chip into the card transactor.

  There was much to do. It didn’t take more than a nanosecond for Quark to realize that leaving custody of the bar to Hetik while he was away would be tantamount to declaring bankruptcy. He put in a call to Treir, the lovely and (admittedly) capable Orion who managed his bar on Bajor, and politely requested her presence on the station for a few days. He then spent the next twenty minutes debating the “particulars” with her, a debate that he didn’t exactly lose, but certainly didn’t win.

  Then there was the question of transportation. He pressed a familiar toggle on his companel.

  “Ro,” he said, adopting his most glowing smile when the station’s commander appeared on the screen. “You’re certainly looking lovely this evening.”

  “What is it, Quark?” she said, barely glancing up from the padd she was studying.

  “My duties as ambassador dictate that I make an urgent trip away from the station,” he began, his face twisting into a convincing look of distress. “I’ll be gone for a few days, maybe a week. And I, uh, I just wanted you to know how much I’m going to miss you.”

  Ro lifted her gaze from the padd and met his eyes. “Well,” she said, pausing briefly to parse the sentiment in his statement, “that’s sweet, Quark. But I’m not going to lend you a runabout.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask—” he began to protest and then stopped when he saw the twinkle in her dark eyes. “Okay, maybe I was. It was worth a try. You know me too well.” Although not quite as well as I wish. “I was just hoping to save the nagus some money, but—you’re right. I’ll rent a shuttle from that new place on the Plaza and charge it to the embassy. After all, if the bar goes under, the embassy goes under. And that would be bad for all of us, right?”

  “Undoubtedly,” she said with a straight face, although Quark sensed she was trying not to smile. “I appreciate your letting me know about your urgent trip, Ambassador Quark. I don’t know how we’ll manage without you, but we’ll try to muddle through.” Her hand moved toward a control on her companel. “Oh—and I’ll miss you too,” she said, just before the screen went dark.

  Quark stared at the screen for another few seconds, wondering if she meant it. Then he shook off the wisp of melancholy and whipped around to look for his apprentice. “Shmenge! I have a learning experience for you!”

  An hour later, Shmenge returned from Wormhole Rent-a-Shuttle and cheerfully handed Quark a padd to review.

  As
Quark’s eyes traveled down the screen, he felt his blood pressure rising. “What?” he bellowed. “You took the premium model? It costs an extra strip a day!”

  “But . . . but they said they wouldn’t have a smaller shuttle available until tomorrow,” Shmenge said, half attempting to stand up for himself, half attempting to slip away and make himself invisible.

  “Well, of course they said that, you fool—”

  “I . . . I think that it’s true, sir,” Shmenge said, standing his ground. “They haven’t been on the station very long and they want to build up a clientele. I told them you wouldn’t spend that much, and look—they deducted the extra charge from the total!” He directed Quark’s gaze to the bottom of the electronic document. “And besides, think how much more comfortable we’ll be. The seats are Corinthian leather, and it has a little sleep chamber in the back. It even has a minireplicator.”

  Quark waggled a finger at Shmenge. “You know they charge for everything you program out of that minireplicator, don’t you? That’s where their profit is. However”—he paused, throwing the boy a bone—“I do like Corinthian leather.” He went back to perusing the contract, shrugging at most of the options accepted or declined.

  Then his eyes fell on an item in very tiny print. “You didn’t decline the expanded insurance rider!” he shrieked. “Are you insane? No competent Ferengi ever accepts the expanded insurance.”

  “But it’s just a few slips a day . . .” Shmenge protested weakly. “It seemed . . . prudent.”

  “It’s like throwing latinum down the ’fresher,” Quark scoffed. “The shuttle has shields, doesn’t it? It’s a Federation requirement for rental vehicles.”

  “Minimal shields,” Shmenge noted, but Quark was no longer listening.

  “Okay, we can fix this,” the bartender said. “It doesn’t say so in the contract, but most of these riders don’t go into effect until the shuttle leaves the station. Pay attention and you’ll learn how an experienced Ferengi negotiates a contract.”

  Quark opened a link to the rental office and explained the “mix-up” to the manager, a silver-bearded Tellarite. “He’s only an apprentice,” the experienced Ferengi negotiator said. “He doesn’t yet know what he’s authorized to do and what’s the mere by-product of his youthful exuberance.”

  Concluding the conversation, Quark turned back to Shmenge. “Well, he was surprisingly accommodating, particularly considering he’s a Tellarite. Must be getting long in the tooth. Or tusk. Whatever it is. In any event, he’s canceling the insurance for the rest of the week, but we’re stuck with it for today.” He shrugged. “That’s okay, I’ll take it out of your salary when we get back. Like you said, ‘It’s just a few slips,’ right?” He glanced at the chronometer on the companel. “Treir should be here on the next transport from Bajor. We’ll leave right after she arrives. You might want to pack a bag.”

  Shmenge shuffled off toward the employee lounge—where Quark had graciously allowed him to stay—and returned a minute later. “I’m ready.”

  Quark frowned. “Where’s your bag?”

  Shmenge shrugged. “All I need is my tooth sharpener and some underwear.”

  “Fine,” Quark said. “Meet me at Docking Port Six in an hour.” And he went off to pack his own underwear.

  6

  Wrigley’s Conference Complex sprawled across most of Desire Island, a self-described “beacon of extravagance, elegance, commerce, and orgiastic splendor” just a short jump from the coastal city of Debauche. Shmenge stood near the front of the hover tram that was speeding them from Wrigley’s spaceport to the island and gasped. “This is . . . this is amazing!” the young Ferengi said, pulling at Quark’s sleeve to get his attention. But Quark just shook him off, concentrating instead on the information about Holo-Palooza that he’d downloaded onto his padd.

  Before them, the complex sparkled. Towering structures sliced the sky, many of them duplicates of iconic buildings from across the quadrant. Spectral beams of radiant light cast messages of “The Best! The Most! The Hottest!” onto force-field billboards high overhead. Shmenge had never seen a place so extravagant. Granted, before traveling to Deep Space 9, he’d seen the sights only around Ferenginar’s capital city. He’d been taught that the Tower of Commerce was the most elegant structure in the quadrant. That, he now realized, was an exaggeration. Across a tree-lined parkway, between a replica of Andoria’s famous Sapphire Spire and a Lurian pentahedrol pyramid, he could see an exact reproduction of the most famous Ferengi building. Compared to the others, it looked stubby and frumpy, as if designed by a rather unimaginative architect.

  The tram bounced to a halt. Quark looked up, then glanced at his padd to confirm their location. “There it is,” he said, “right over there,” and he headed for an archway decorated on either side with high-relief Roman pillars cut into a wall the color of tusk enamel. A shimmering sign over the arch read HOLO-PALOOZA—BUSINESS CONFERENCE OF PARAMOUNT IMPORTANCE. Shmenge followed, distracted, almost stumbling into the circular fountain near the front of the arch. Quark glanced back at his apprentice. “Don’t say anything, and don’t touch anything,” he snapped as he entered the archway—or at least entered it as far as he could before crashing against the sparkle of a force-field door.

  The disturbance prompted an attractive but obviously bored female Elloran standing on the other side of the force field to say, “Entry to Holo-Palooza is restricted to members of the business community.”

  Quark rubbed his nose. “I am a businessman. And I have business at the conference,” he said. “My name is Quark, proprietor of Quark’s Public House, Café, Gaming Emporium, Holosuite Arcade, and Ferengi Embassy on Bajor.”

  “May I see your registration pass?” the Elloran recited from memory.

  “I’d like to buy one,” he replied. “And according to your brochure material, the entry fee is six strips of latinum.”

  He prepared to punch the transaction into his padd, but she stopped him. “That was the advance rate,” she said. “The day-of-entry fee is thirteen strips.”

  “Thirteen! That’s outrageous!” Quark shouted, but the look of disinterest on the female’s face informed him that she didn’t care. Grumbling, he forwarded the thirteen. The force field fizzed and he stepped through, signaling Shmenge to follow him. Then it was Shmenge’s turn to crash into the shield.

  “What’re you doing?” Quark said, surprised.

  “I need to see his registration pass. Or his thirteen strips.”

  “He’s only my assistant,” sputtered Quark.

  “He’s breathing, isn’t he?” the Elloran said, and her mouth formed into what may have been a smile, although it wasn’t carried by her eyes.

  “Pay the lady,” Quark growled at Shmenge. The shocked youth hastily punched the transaction into his padd and chased after Quark as they headed into . . .

  . . . an assault on their eyes and ears that hit them like a battlefront.

  From wall to wall to floor to ceiling, flashing booths, shifting displays, and decibel-defying audio-ads promoted holoprograms, holonovels, and hologames: “Galaxy of Borg-craft,” “Authentic Artificial Life Death Experiences,” “Dominion Dominatrix Detention.” As thousands of businessmen wandered the concourse, holographic images floated over and around them, popping into their faces, vying for their attention. All the while, a steady drone of dialogue cut through the musical, mechanical, and maniacal cacophony: “. . . serving the publishing community’s need to satisfy the public’s demand for an expanding panoply of entertainment values and technologies . . .”

  Leaning into each other’s ears in order to hear, Quark and Shmenge simultaneously shouted their reactions to the chaos. “This is the most . . . (from Quark) horrific (from Shmenge) fabulous . . . room I’ve ever been in!”

  The older Ferengi grabbed his apprentice by the ear, dragging him toward a brightly l
it information booth near the center of the onslaught. Shmenge waited while Quark spoke to another Elloran female, then turned back to him. “Broht is at the B and F Pavilion in the Omega Wing!” Quark shouted. “Don’t get lost, don’t bother me, and don’t turn off the tracking capabilities on your padd,” he instructed, and then crashed headlong into the agglomerate.

  Broht & Forrester’s presentation arena wasn’t the largest on the display floor, but Quark observed that the company had spent its money where it counts. Thanks to an array of cleverly placed holoprojectors, the lifelike antics of the publisher’s literary legends drew in all the traffic the B & F pavilion could handle. Here galumphed Toby the Targ, the anthropomorphized Klingon beast that children of most species found strangely enchanting. There swashbuckled Ziroma, the sultry Caitian pirate queen whose all-female crew terrorized the inhabitants of the mythical sky kingdom of Flarflandia. At the back of the pavilion, a milling crowd parted nervously as Dixon Hill sprinted through their midst—just before hitman Felix Leech emptied a volley of holographic hot lead in their direction.

  And there, standing motionless next to the sales counter, was a life-size simulacrum of beautiful T’lana, frozen in an evocative pose that pulled Quark in like a tractor beam. He stared up at her in near reverence and imagined himself nuzzling that pale citron skin as she coiled latinum restraints around him . . .

  “Can I help you?”

  For a millisecond, Quark allowed himself to believe that it was T’lana’s image talking. Then his senses returned, pouring a bucket of cold reality over his head as he focused on the actual speaker, an exceptionally ugly Nausicaan wearing an exceptionally stylish business suit. His coarse, dark hair was slicked back into a neat braid interwoven with strips of animal hide.

  Quark cleared his throat. He’d never encountered a Nausicaan employed as an aide-de-camp; their brute strength and quick tempers made them more suited for work as bouncers or bodyguards. “Uhhhh . . . yes, you can help me. You can tell Mister Broht that Quark, proprietor of the holosuite arcade on Deep Space Nine and the facility at Aljuli, Bajor, would like to see him.”