“Number Nineteen,” Shmenge called from the helm. “I know that one.”
“Everybody knows that one,” Quark snapped. He turned back to T’lana with a semisincere smile. “I wasn’t implying that I don’t trust you, T’lana. I was just curious about how deeply you’d researched your subject matter. In the holos, you looked like quite an expert in the art of . . . romance. But can any Vulcan truly know the way to the Ferengi heart?”
“Apart from reinforcing the bond with a large quantity of latinum?”
“Yes, apart from that,” Quark replied somewhat testily.
She tilted her head to one side. “Are you suggesting that Vulcans have no insight into the sexual desires of other species?”
“Look, I know that you Vulcans are very, very smart, and I’m sure you know all about the biology. But the fact is, you don’t even seem to have much insight into the sexual desires of your own species, let alone others. You wrote a pretty good first chapter, I have to admit, but how do I know you can . . . how can I put this . . . uh, sustain that level of erotic tension?”
“It is illogical to discuss at this point,” T’lana said. “Unless—” Suddenly her eyebrows rose, her expression conveying coy surprise. “Unless you are suggesting some sort of demonstration.”
Across the room, Shmenge punctuated the conversation by dropping his padd with a noisy clatter.
Quark feigned indignation. “T’lana, how could you even think I was suggesting such a thing! I’m an honest businessman, looking to make an honest investment.” He cleared his throat and lowered his voice so that Shmenge couldn’t hear him. “Unless, of course, you’re interested—”
T’lana turned away from Quark and went back to reading.
Quark sighed. Well, it was worth a try.
For the next two hours, no one spoke. Quark nearly drifted off and considered retiring to the tiny sleeping chamber in the back, then discarded the thought. He didn’t think it was a good idea to leave Shmenge unsupervised. Finally, he got up and began to walk toward the minireplicator.
It was at that point that Shmenge broke the silence. “Um . . . I think we’re being followed.”
Quark ran over to stand at T’lana’s side as she studied the image of a ship on the navigation monitor. “I recognize that configuration,” she said. “It is Broht’s company yacht. I recommend evasive maneuvers.”
Shmenge shot Quark a what-do-I-do-now? look. “Speed up, you idiot,” said the older Ferengi.
Shmenge increased velocity, but the rented shuttle wasn’t capable of travel faster than warp three. “At this speed, Broht’s ship will overtake us in two point five minutes,” T’lana stated. “Excuse me,” she said, leaning once more over the young Ferengi. She quickly punched in a new heading and the shuttle lurched into a different course.
For a few moments Quark thought that they might have lost Broht. Then the yacht reappeared on the monitor, looking larger than ever. What would Ro do? he thought desperately. And the answer came to him. “Fire photon torpedoes!” he shouted.
“But . . . but sir, this is a passenger shuttle,” Shmenge squeaked. “It has no weapons.”
“You fool!” Quark hissed. “Why didn’t you go for the deluxe model with the laser cannon?”
“But I—” Shmenge started to protest.
T’lana interrupted him. “Broht’s vessel is not armed. However, it is overtaking us.” She said it with such calmness that Quark suddenly worried that she might have led them into a trap.
Shmenge noticed a flashing light on the companel. “He’s hailing us!”
Again Quark attempted to channel Ro’s courage in the face of calamity. “Put him through,” he said in a self-assured tone that did not correspond with the queasy feeling in his stomach.
Shmenge flipped a switch and Broht’s face appeared on the monitor. The Bolian was almost purple with rage. “Quark! Power down your engines. We need to talk.”
“Ardon, imagine running into you out here. A shame I have no time for tea.” He turned to Shmenge. “Keep going. Full speed ahead!”
“Quark! You can’t get away from me,” Broht sputtered.
“I’m sorry, Ardon,” Quark replied. “Can’t hear you. You’re breaking up.”
He waved a hand at Shmenge, signaling him to close communication. However, the terrified apprentice failed to notice; his gaze was fixed straight ahead as he held the shuttle at full speed.
As a result, the communications link remained open, and some of the vilest curses in the quadrant echoed through the cabin.
Then the little light on Shmenge’s panel went dark. “He’s closed communications,” the apprentice said, stating the obvious.
“Good!” said Quark. “Maybe he’s decided to go home.”
“Unlikely,” T’lana responded with a frown. “That would be out of character for Mister Broht.”
Quark chuckled. “Well, maybe he’s realized that he’s met his match. He has no weapons. What can he d—”
Suddenly, the shuttle jolted violently and Quark lurched forward, landing atop a squealing Shmenge. “What the—”
The ship rocked again. Straining, Quark managed to pull himself off his apprentice.
“Hail Broht!” he ordered.
Shmenge, wide-eyed with panic, sat motionless, so T’lana opened the link.
“Broht, whatever you’re doing, stop it!” Quark shrieked. “I have to return this shuttle in one piece.” He turned to glare at Shmenge. “Why didn’t you sign for the extra insurance? Can’t you do anything right?”
Broht’s visage filled the monitor. “That was just a little tap, Quark. Franti suggested that it might get your attention.”
“I’ll sue you for damages!” Quark threatened.
Broht laughed. “You’re in no position to do anything of the kind, Quark. I have a proposition for you: come to a full stop or I’ll have Franti give your vessel more than a little tap!”
“You should comply,” T’lana said calmly.
“What?” Quark spun around to stare at her. “Are you insane? I’m the Ferengi ambassador to Bajor! I have high-level Federation connections! I—”
“We are no longer in Federation territory,” T’lana explained.
“No longer— When did that happen? Shmenge, what did you do?”
“It wasn’t me,” the young Ferengi whimpered. He pointed a trembling finger at T’lana. “She made the course correction. I don’t know where we are right now!”
T’lana drew close to Quark. “Tell Shmenge to come to a full stop now,” she said softly.
“A full stop in the middle of nowhere?” Quark gasped. “What are you playing at?”
“Quark,” T’lana said, taking his hand in hers. “Trust me.”
Quark couldn’t help noticing that she was addressing him in the same dulcet tones that holo-T’lana employed when she spoke to Shmun. The palpable rush of anticipation and apprehension that washed over him was disturbing, to say the least. Whether it was the look in her eyes or the physical contact that made him decide to comply didn’t really matter. It was a sucker move and he knew he was going to regret it. “Shmenge . . . do it.”
A minute later the two ships sat side by side, motionless. “I’m glad you’re finally willing to listen to reason,” Broht said over the comlink. He craned his neck to better see the Vulcan standing behind Quark. “I’m surprised at you, T’lana,” he said. “Imagine my dismay when Franti confirmed my worst suspicions. Conspiring with this bartending dunsel!”
“Dunsel!” spat Quark.
“Conspiring is a harsh accusation, Ardon,” T’lana interrupted. “Quark and I are simply engaged in a private business transaction.”
“It’s an accurate accusation! You’re trying to cut me out of my own franchise! If you’ve written a new installment in the Vu
lcan Love Slave series, you have an obligation to sell it to me!”
“My previous contract with you was nonexclusive,” she volleyed. “And it is now terminated, so I have no obligation to you whatsoever. Further, you are ignoring the fact that since no one owns the rights to Vulcan Love Slave, it has long been open to universal dispersion.”
“Public domain be damned!” Broht shouted. “You have no right—”
“And neither do you, Ardon,” Quark interjected, unable to contain himself for any longer.
Broht gnashed his teeth in fury, then gradually composed himself. “T’lana, my old friend,” he said in the confident voice he reserved for closing his toughest negotiations. “Why are we fighting? You know I’ll pay you more than that Ferengi will. Surely you can see the logic in extending our relationship. Isn’t it obvious that it will be the more rewarding arrangement in the long run?”
“It is not my decision alone. My business partner also has some say in this transaction.”
Quark looked at her in surprise. He had completely forgotten that back in the bar she’d said she collaborated on the holoprogram. It was a complication he’d ignored at the time and didn’t want to think about right now.
Apparently, neither did Broht. Quark watched in fascination as the Bolian’s rising blood pressure turned the cartilaginous ridge that divided his features a deep purple-black. With a roar of indignation, the publisher turned to Franti. “Ram them!” he ordered.
Quark and Shmenge screamed in unison, but T’lana remained stoic, seemingly disinterested in the carnage that was about to ensue. Her gaze rested on the sensor readings flashing across one of the shuttle’s control panels. “I suggest that you belay that order, Ardon,” she said, gesturing out the shuttle’s forward view port, where the fabric of space began to shimmer and ripple.
“Gentlemen,” she addressed her puzzled fellow passengers, “we have company.”
11
“Wh-what is that?” gasped an awestruck Shmenge.
“Something��s decloaking,” Quark responded nervously. “Something big.”
And then it was in front of them, the biggest ship Quark had ever seen. A ship that made their puny shuttle and Broht’s yacht look like sand fleas. Although Quark had only limited experience in identifying spacecraft, he knew it wasn’t Klingon or Romulan or Dominion. No distinctive color markings or symbology linked the vessel to any particular species.
It was, however, garnished with a large number of weapons ports.
“They—they’re h-h-hailing us,” Shmenge said, hiccuping in horror. “V-v-voice only.”
“Well, for Gint’s sake, don’t make them wait for a response!” Quark said, smacking the correct switch.
A loud metallic voice resonated within the rental shuttle—and at the same time, judging by the alarmed look on Broht’s face, the interior of the publisher’s yacht.
“TRESPASSERS, IDENTIFY YOUR BUSINESS IN THIS SECTOR.”
Quark moved his lips feebly, but no words came out. That gave Broht the opportunity to speak first. “I am Ardon Broht of Broht and Forrester, purveyor of popular holonovels,” said the Bolian. “Perhaps you’ve enjoyed them. Toby the Targ. Dixon Hill. I am attempting to reclaim my rightful property from the persons in that shuttlecraft.”
“WE DO NOT RECOGNIZE OUTSIDERS’ PROPERTY DISPUTES. ALL PROPERTY THAT CROSSES INTO THIS REGION BECOMES OUR PROPERTY. YOU HAVE VIOLATED OUR BORDERS. YOUR VESSEL WILL BE CONFISCATED.”
Broht opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, Quark found his voice. “I am Ambassador Quark, of Quark’s Public House, Café, Gaming Emporium, Holosuite Arcade, and Ferengi Embassy to Bajor. I’m just attempting to get back to my home on Deep Space Nine—”
“WE DO NOT RECOGNIZE YOUR STATUS AS MERCHANT OR DIPLOMAT. BOTH ARE IRRELEVANT IN THIS REGION. YOU HAVE VIOLATED OUR BORDERS. YOUR VESSEL WILL BE CONFISCATED.”
“I protest!” Quark said, incensed. “You have no authority to do this! I have high-level—”
T’lana suddenly placed her hand on his shoulder to stop him. He looked at her dubiously. “Trust me,” she said again.
“Do I have any choice?” he muttered under his breath.
Leaning forward to speak directly into the comm, T’lana enunciated clearly, “Wildflower.”
There was a long pause. Quark and Shmenge exchanged puzzled looks as T’lana calmly waited for a response. Then—
“ACKNOWLEDGED, WILDFLOWER. WHAT IS IT YOU WOULD HAVE US DO?”
“We request passage through your sector. And we would like you to invite Mister Broht to return the way he came.”
Still on the shuttle’s monitor, Broht visibly bristled. “What? How dare you!” he sputtered. “I have every right to—”
Suddenly Franti leaned forward and whispered urgently into Broht’s ear. “What?” Broht said, his color draining. “They’re what?” Broht looked at Quark’s image on his own monitor in astonishment. “You’re doing business with the Orion Syndicate?”
Quark, shocked, turned to T’lana. “We’re doing business with the Orion Syndicate?”
Ignoring him, T’lana spoke directly to the publisher. “Mister Broht, the item you are interested in remains under private negotiation. I request that you do not attempt to interfere. However, it would be logical for you to assume that an opportunity for your publishing house might present itself . . . at a future time.”
“PUBLISHER,” came the voice from the imposing vessel, “YOU MAY DEPART. NOW.”
Broht stiffened, but at Franti’s urging he nodded and allowed the Nausicaan to back his ship away.
“WILDFLOWER,” came the voice once more. “PLEASE CONVEY TO YOUR ASSOCIATE THAT THE DEBT HAS BEEN REPAID.”
“I shall,” T’lana replied.
Quark stared through the transparent aluminum view port at the big, big, BIG ship, unsure of what had just transpired. “T’lana—” he began.
But the anonymous voice interrupted him. “YOU MAY DEPART. NOW.”
T’lana turned to Quark and raised an eyebrow. Quark poked Shmenge. “You heard what the whatever it is said. Get us out of here.”
“Where to?” said Shmenge.
“Resume previous course settings,” T’lana stated. “The initial route that I input when we left Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet. We should arrive at Deep Space Nine in four hours.”
“Deep Space Nine?” Quark stared at her, dumbfounded. “We’ve been heading for Deep Space Nine since we left Wrigley’s?”
“We were until we were required to enlist assistance in dealing with Mister Broht,” T’lana said.
“And you just happened to know that the Orion Syndicate considers these coordinates part of their turf? And they just happened to owe you a favor?”
“Happenstance had nothing to do with it,” T’lana responded as she calmly returned to her padd. “I would, however, recommend that you avoid these coordinates in the future.”
“Count on that,” murmured Quark, sinking into a chair. He briefly allowed himself to ponder what might have previously transpired between T’lana (and her associate) and the Orion Syndicate. Then he realized that the sooner he forgot about the whole thing, the better off he’d be. With a sigh, he activated an auxiliary monitor and utilized the outside sensors to investigate the dings and scrapes that Franti’s nudges had inflicted on the hull. He saw nothing that threatened the shuttle’s integrity, but quite a bit that was guaranteed to add obscene sums to the tab with Wormhole Rent-a-Shuttle.
Rubbing his upper ear, Quark headed for the tiny sleep chamber. He might as well get his money’s worth out of the rental and take a nap. Besides, he felt a pinna ache coming on, and he wanted to be fresh for whatever T’lana had orchestrated on Deep Space 9.
12
“Are you out of your mind?!”
Shmenge winc
ed at the ear-piercing shriek of outrage, glad that, for once, Quark’s ire wasn’t directed at him.
The actual directee—the Tellarite manager of Wormhole Rent-a-Shuttle—merely studied Quark with a bemused expression. “Don’t know what you’re so worked up about, Mister Quark,” he said, stroking his silver beard as he leaned lightly on the counter. “You’re not looking at replacement costs. I already agreed that the shuttle is repairable. I just don’t agree that the repairs should be free. After all, you’re the one who insisted on dropping the expanded insurance.”
Quark swung his baleful gaze in Shmenge’s direction, but the apprentice neatly avoided it by directing his own gaze to a tiny speck on the wall behind the counter. I’m not going to let him blame me for this, he told himself. He should have listened to me.
After a tense moment, Quark released an exasperated sigh. “This is three times as much as it should be!” he grunted.
“Based on whose estimate?” said the Tellarite. “You show me a good mechanic who can restore that hull panel for anywhere near this price and I’ll sign him up—and don’t point me toward your famous Starfleet nephew! You know he won’t do it.” Shmenge relaxed when he heard the Tellarite slide a padd in Quark’s direction. “This is a fair price and you know it.”
“It’s extortion, that’s what it is!” Quark groused as he signed off on the charges and shoved the padd back toward the rental manager. “And by the way, that snail juice in the minireplicator was terrible.”
“Snail juice is always terrible,” the Tellarite replied with a shrug. “Next time try the Aldebaran sour mash. Very tasty.”
Shifting the weight of his overstuffed carry bags, Shmenge followed Quark toward the bar. When they entered the familiar surroundings, he called out, “I’m just going to drop this stuff in my room before I start my shift.”
He’d anticipated a lengthy lecture from Quark about his duties being more important than personal time, but all he heard from the bartender when their paths diverged was a distracted, “Don’t dawdle.” Relieved, Shmenge entered the former employee lounge. Fitting his accumulated booty into the minuscule quarters would be a challenge, but he wasn’t worried. In school he’d been surprisingly good at spatial planning and geometric optimization . . .
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