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

by Paula M. Block

  The Nausicaan leveled a hollow-eyed stare at the Ferengi, his facial tusks twitching in what Quark could only interpret as disdain. “I don’t recall seeing that name on Mister Broht’s list of appointments. Perhaps there’s been a miscommunication.”

  Quark plastered a smile on his face. He’d offer a bribe, but Nausicaans were notoriously indifferent to bribes. You could pay them to kill someone, but you couldn’t grease their palms. Weird. So he made another go at being polite. “Yes, I’m sure of that, Mister”—he searched for the Nausicaan’s name badge and spotted it on his jacket—“Franti,” he concluded. “A miscommunication. But we can clear it up right now. Just tell Mister Broht that I’m here. We’ve been doing business together for years.”

  “Then you should be aware that Mister Broht doesn’t see anyone at a sales conference without a preset appointment. Perhaps you’d like to make one for next year’s conference.”

  Quark’s smile threatened to turn into a snarl. “If I wanted an appointment for next year, I wouldn’t be here now, would I?”

  The Nausicaan’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “I don’t know where you’d be. I do know that Mister Broht is a Very. Busy. Man. I suggest you leave.” Quark still had bad dreams about his last close encounter with the Nausicaan species, which had left him with a shattered eye socket, two fractured ribs, and a punctured lower lung, but he refused to back down. Wrapping up a deal for Vulcan Love Slave IV: Lust’s Latinum Lost was important to his survival.

  He reached up and grabbed the Nausicaan’s lapel. “If you want to risk blowing a huge deal for your boss, that’s fine,” he said. “Maybe you have other employment options that require less thinking. But if I were you, I’d give him the opportunity to make up his own mind. He needs to see me.” He stared into the twin black holes behind Franti’s own bony eye sockets, letting him think about that for a moment. Then he casually let go of the lapel, smoothing out the wrinkles he’d created. “Nice fabric, Franti. Is this Tholian silk?”

  There was a beeeep from something on the sales counter. The Nausicaan retrieved a small padd and studied it, then straightened. “One moment,” he said with a hiss, disappearing into the pavilion’s interior office.

  Quark let out the breath he’d been holding, wiped a few drops of sweat from his forehead, and softly recited the Sixty-Second Rule of Acquisition under his breath: “The riskier the road, the greater the profit. The riskier the road . . .”

  By the time the Nausicaan returned, Quark’s heart was beating quite normally.

  “Mister Broht indicates that he has a moment to exchange pleasantries with an old friend,” said Franti. He held the door open for the Ferengi.

  “Well, of course he has,” said Quark. “Didn’t I tell you that?”

  Shmenge couldn’t believe his luck. Quark had set him free in the middle of the biggest, loudest, most exciting party he could have imagined. A cacophony of music cues, promotion pitches, and production sonics, punctuated by simulated phaser, disrupter, and plasma blasts, melded into a hypnotic wall of white noise. Buyers and vendors hustled from display to display, many of them representatives of species that Shmenge had never seen before. As he walked past the colorful sales booths, holographic tentacles reached out to caress his face and his lobes, and gently encircle his wrist in programmed attempts to maneuver him toward the vendor’s product line.

  And then there were the Holo-Hotties! Some costumed, some barely clothed, the female, male, and androgynous product pushers wandered through the crowd pitching their companies’ wares. At first, Shmenge felt a bit shy when a Holo-Hottie approached him; he was, after all, only a visitor and not an actual customer. Then an especially alluring Tarlac in a skintight gold jumpsuit held out an isolinear chip and asked, “Would you like a free test sample?” And just like that, he was hooked.

  As he continued to walk the floor, he filled the pouches in his tunic with items freely offered as “goodwill gifts.” And when an Argrathi Holo-Hottie offered him a large promotional bag emblazoned with the intriguing phrase WADI RULE, he began filling that as well. He collected hologames and Marauder Mo accessories, holonovels and a necklace made of genuine Spican flame gems, instruction manual downloads, a plethora of soon-to-be-released holoprograms, and a fearsome glow-in-the-dark Mugato mask. His favorite item was a fuzzy toy Trill symbiont that giggled when he squeezed it. And he was extremely curious about a mysterious black isolinear chip labeled, simply, “Mona Luvsitt’s Backdoor Code.”

  He could hardly wait to tell his moogie about his entrepreneurial growth.

  She’d probably like the necklace, too.

  Now this is more like it, Quark thought as he settled into the plush guest chair across from Ardon Broht’s desk.

  “Can I offer you a drink?” asked the Bolian publisher. “Altair water? Raktajino? I may even have a little kanar,” he said with a puckish grin. “Got a taste for it last time I was on your station.”

  “Always happy to introduce a customer to a new vice,” Quark responded with a smile of his own.

  “So I’ve heard,” chortled Broht. “But perhaps it’s a bit early in the day for spirits. Why don’t we share some Tarkalean tea?”

  Truthfully, Quark wasn’t thirsty, but he nodded his head anyway. Broht tapped a message onto his padd, then leaned back in his chair. “How long has it been, Quark? I don’t believe we’ve spoken in person for years.”

  “Let me think. I know it was on the old station . . .” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, I know! It was right after you withdrew Photons Be Free from circulation—”

  Broht’s expression soured as he recalled one of the very few miscalculations he’d made in his hugely successful career. “Yes, well, let’s not dwell on the past.”

  Quark agreeably changed the subject. “Say, I hear you have an exciting lineup for the coming year. Care to fill me in?”

  The publisher relaxed as he launched into a patented spiel about his upcoming titles. The Ferengi feigned interest, his ears attuned only to the words “Vulcan,” “Love,” and “Slave.”

  Without knocking, Franti entered carrying a loaded tea tray. He set the tray down, placed a cup in front of Broht, and filled it with the steaming beverage. Then he turned to Quark. The Nausicaan’s expression was impassive, but it was too easy to read a hint of malevolence in those deep sunken eyes.

  “I’ll get it myself, thanks,” the Ferengi said quickly, rising to retrieve a cup as Franti departed.

  Broht was waxing on about an upcoming line of android love stories when Quark finally opted to interrupt him. “Say, Ardon, my customers really enjoyed Shmun’s New Hope. You knocked it out of the park with that one!”

  Broht visibly puffed up at the praise. “I did, didn’t I? Triple-bar sales the first week it was out and still doing steady business! I wish all our titles sold that well.”

  “And I wish all my titles rented that well!” Quark said, taking a sip of his tea. “Everyone keeps asking me, ‘When is the sequel coming? When can I expect to see the next installment of Vulcan Love Slave?’ ”

  Broht laughed heartily. “If I knew the answer to that, I’d be a rich man!”

  Quark took another sip. “Well, surely you’re working on it.” He leaned forward and gave the Bolian a conspiratorial wink. “I heard rumors that you might be revealing a bit here at the conference—just to pique appetites.”

  Broht looked puzzled. “Would that I could, but there’s nothing like that on the horizon.”

  Quark dropped his cup to the matching saucer with a sharp clink. “Nothing?”

  Broht shook his head. “Trust me. I’ve been pushing my creative team for months, but I can’t seem to get a rise out of them.”

  “Huh,” the Ferengi said. “So I guess there’s no chance that someone would have been zeta testing it,” he mused out loud.

  Broht’s brow furrowed. “Not without
my knowing about it. Why would you think someone was testing it?”

  It occurred to Quark that perhaps he’d said too much. “Is that what it sounded like?” he said, forcing out a chuckle. “I told you—I heard a rumor that there’s a new sequel. I figured that if anyone knew the details, it’d be you.”

  Broht’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right. And if anyone were to do it, it would be me, because it’s my franchise.”

  “Well, technically the original story is in public domain,” Quark couldn’t help pointing out. “No one knows who the author was, so no messy estates to deal with. But . . . uh . . . I’m sure you’re right. No one would dare to compete with you. You’re the largest publisher in the Alpha Quadrant.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Well, it’s been nice visiting with you, Ardon.”

  Suddenly Broht was standing in front of him. “Where did you hear this rumor, Quark?”

  Quark fidgeted under Broht’s intense gaze. “You know how it is on the station, Ardon. Barroom talk, that’s all.” He chuckled weakly. “I keep my ears open in the hopes of hearing profit in the wind, but sometimes it’s just a lot of hot air.”

  “Why would you think there was a test version? Great azure gods,” said Broht, the color draining from his face. “You haven’t seen a test version, have you?”

  Quark slapped his hand to his chest. “Me? Of course not! I should be so lucky!” He walked to the door. “Come visit the new bar sometime. There’s a bottle of kanar with your name on it!”

  Stepping out of the office, Quark looked around for Franti and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the Nausicaan was engaged in an animated conversation with a group of Edosians. The Ferengi quickly made his way to the concourse floor, then pulled out his padd and signaled Shmenge to meet him at the front entrance.

  A total bust, he thought bitterly. Back to square one.

  7

  Quark paced restlessly outside the entrance to Holo-Palooza. The day felt warm and sunny as a hint of onshore breeze wafted a refreshing spritz of moisture over him from the nearby bubbling fountain. But the ambience was wasted on Quark. He had no interest in anything beyond leaving this disappointing ball of dirt.

  He was in the process of telling himself that if Shmenge didn’t show up in the next millisecond he could walk back home, when suddenly a ripple formed in the entrance’s force field—and an obese Ferengi shoved his bulk through it.

  Quark’s jaw dropped. The figure waddling toward him was Shmenge, but a profoundly changed Shmenge, his bloated body—no, it was his bloated clothing—bulging from items of every shape imaginable that were stuffed into every pocket, every pouch, every loose fold in the fabric.

  “What the hell is this?” Quark asked as Shmenge inched toward him, struggling under the weight of the overflowing carry bags dangling from both shoulders.

  “P-premiums,” the ecstatic youngster gasped, holding up the bundle of loot he held in his right fist. “They’re handing out stuff everywhere!” He eyed Quark in surprise. “Didn’t you get any?”

  Quark raised his gaze to the heavens. “It’s junk!” he growled. “Promotional junk!” He spun on his heels and began walking toward the hover tram launch.

  “But . . . but it’s free!” Shmenge responded.

  Over his shoulder, Quark shouted, “These people are businessmen, and no businessman gives away anything of value! Drop it into a recycler and let’s get out of here.”

  Shmenge stared at the older Ferengi in disbelief, then determinedly shifted his packages and hustled after him, grunting as the heaviest bag banged against his knee with every step.

  Quark rolled his eyes but said nothing while Shmenge schlepped his treasures onto the tram. If he wants to take home worthless souvenirs, let him.

  Assuming we can take off with all that added weight.

  Once back at their rented shuttle, Quark headed straight to the minireplicator and ordered a large shot of snail juice with extra shells. “Broht doesn’t know a thing about Vulcan Love Slave IV,” he snarled as the glass materialized before him. “So we’re nowhere. Worse than nowhere.” He downed the drink quickly, pausing only to noisily masticate the shells. Then he ordered a second shot.

  Shmenge opened his mouth to remind Quark of the extravagant minireplicator charges, then thought better of it. His boss was in a bad enough mood as it was. A different thought popped into his head as he attempted to stuff his booty into a small storage locker. “You know, sir, I was thinking,” he began tentatively. “Um, maybe we can find the person who wrote the earlier sequels and ask him if he knows about this new one.”

  “That’s a stupid idea,” Quark snapped between crunches. “Nobody knows who the writers of these programs are. That’s the way the publishers want it. You see their company names on the programs and that’s it. Broht’s not about to reveal the names of his actual writers.”

  But Shmenge already was busy on the shuttle’s computer, poring through the Vulcan Love Slave user-klatch sites and asking pointed questions about the writers and the programmers. His queries quickly brought a plethora of salacious responses, not exactly what he’d expected. After several minutes Quark turned to look at his apprentice as the youngster’s mumbling increased in volume: “That’s not what I asked— That’s just vulg— I wasn’t suggesting anything of that sort— No, I didn’t say I wanted to—” Then Shmenge shouted, “How rude!” and quickly ended all transmissions.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen that color on a Ferengi’s face before, Quark thought. “No luck?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Shmenge said, his eyes shifting toward the minireplicator. He wondered if he dared ask permission to get himself a small glass of snail juice (neat, without shells) but ultimately opted against it. He sighed. “No. Nobody wants to discuss the, um, writers. They’re happy to discuss the variables of the stories, though. The different ways you can twist them. And I do mean twist them.” He shuddered. “There are some strange individuals out there.”

  Quark shrugged. “Strange is just money in the bank to a clever entrepreneur,” he said.

  Shmenge tilted his head to one side. “I never heard that. Is that one of the Rules?”

  Quark shook his head. “Nope. I just made it up. It should be one, though, shouldn’t it?” he said, pleased with himself. He emptied his glass and put it back into the replicator slot to recycle. “Let’s get ready to lift off.”

  As Shmenge reached for the toggle to power up, a peculiar tweedling sound filled the air. The two Ferengi looked around the cabin, puzzled. After a moment of searching the controls, Shmenge noticed a flashing light on the companel. “It’s an incoming message. Voice only.”

  “Maybe Treir’s calling to say we have a customer,” Quark said. “Open it.”

  Shmenge flipped a switch and responded to the hail with his name and the call letters for the rental vehicle, WORM47. For a moment, they heard only the rumble of static, then a female voice. “Shmenge WORM47, I have observed your query on the VLS user site Devoted Disciples of the Love Slave. It seems that you are looking for me.”

  Shmenge winced. “It’s one of those strange individuals,” he whispered to Quark. “I’m going to cut her off.”

  But Quark caught Shmenge’s hand just as he was about to end the transmission. “Hang on,” he said, sotto voce. “Remember that new rule of mine? Let’s hear what she has to say.” He turned to address the companel. “This is WORM47,” he stated. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

  “WORM47, I am the individual about whom you inquired. May I assume that you wish to pursue a more detailed conversation?”

  Quark’s eyes widened in surprise. Common sense told him that Shmenge’s brief trolling gambit couldn’t possibly have paid off so precisely. But seeing as he had no other options, common sense be damned. “Yes, you may. And please, call me Qua
rk. What did you say your name was?”

  “All in good time. My multilateration algorithm places you in the vicinity of Wrigley Intergalactic Spaceport—”

  Quark looked over at Shmenge. “Her what?” he mouthed.

  “—If you wish to meet, come to Radioactive Residuals at twenty-three hundred hours tonight.” With a final crackle of static, the signal terminated.

  “Wait!” said Quark. “You didn’t—” He pounded the console in frustration. “What just happened?”

  “She traced our com signal,” Shmenge observed, a hint of admiration in his voice. “Did it fast, too.” He grinned. “She must be here on the planet. Probably attending Holo-Palooza.”

  “But . . . but . . . how does she expect us to find her? And what the hell are radioactive residuals?”

  Shmenge thought for a moment, then exploded as he experienced an epiphany. “Oh! Oh! I think I know!” He reached into his pocket, extracted a handful of small iridescent chips, and dropped them on the navigation console. “Business contact chips!” he explained.

  “What were you going to do with those?” Quark asked scornfully. “You have no use for business contacts. You’re a waiter. No, you’re a sub-waiter.”

  “I thought they were pretty,” Shmenge admitted sheepishly as he poked through the multihued chips. “Oh! Here it is!” He plugged the chip into his padd and beamed in triumph. “Radioactive Residuals. It’s a bar in the Debauche casino district. And look,” he said, flashing his padd at Quark, “it says I get a free drink!”

  Quark snatched the padd away from Shmenge and stared at the image on the screen. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “You mean I get a free drink,” he said, pulling the chip from the slot. “Come on. We’ve got a tram to catch.”

  8