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

by Paula M. Block

  Quark looked around the bar and saw the source of his distraction sitting at a small table near the center of the room. He’d expected to find T’lana there, of course. It was his suggestion that she make herself comfortable while he and Shmenge dealt with the rental company.

  What he hadn’t expected was the other female at T’lana’s table—Rionoj. A vision in silver and lavender, she was lovely as always and, from the look of things, well acquainted with T’lana. A sultry smile played over the Boslic’s lips as she pressed herself against one of the Vulcan’s slender shoulders to whisper into her shell-shaped ear. T’lana’s expression changed very little at hearing the secret communication, but she nodded in apparent agreement, which, in turn, triggered a throaty chuckle from Rionoj.

  As intriguing as the cozy interaction appeared to be—particularly to the male servers hovering nearby, their mouths agape—something about the exchange made Quark nervous. Why do I get the feeling I’m being set up? he thought.

  He approached the table cautiously. “So . . . ladies—I believe we have business to discuss.”

  Rionoj flashed a smile. “Quark, it’s good to see you again—particularly in one piece!”

  Quark faked a smile of his own. “Yes, I’m happy to be that way myself. So, do we have a transaction to negotiate, or has this all been one big joke on poor old Quark?”

  “No joke, Quark,” Rionoj soothed. “I promised a quality product and I’m here to deliver. Of course, it’s going to cost you a bit more than it would have a few days ago.”

  Quark felt his temperature rising. “The ‘quality product’ you offered me a few days ago was just a tease,” he accused.

  “A simple tactic to incite your interest,” T’lana confirmed. “We determined that you would require a ‘risky road,’ as you Ferengi put it, in order to convince you of the product’s profit potential.”

  Rionoj nodded. “The actual program, the whole thing,” she said, “is here now. In fact it’s already installed in Holosuite Number Two, cued up and waiting for you.”

  Quark followed her gaze to the bar’s upper level. “And suppose I don’t like it,” he said testily.

  “An unlikely outcome,” commented T’lana. “But if that is your appraisal, we have, as you know, an alternate buyer.”

  Quark didn’t favor her with a response. I’ll be damned if I’ll let Ardon Broht have it after all I’ve been through. Leaving the two women at their table, he headed for the holosuite.

  13

  Quark hesitated at the entrance to Holosuite Two. He’d hunted down this prize with the ferocity of a sehlat on the scent of a reeta-hawk. Now it was here for the taking, his to devour, to slake his long-prolonged desires. And yet—

  Something about this deal isn’t exactly lompoc, he thought for perhaps the tenth time since he’d left Rionoj and T’lana in the bar.

  He’d traveled halfway across the quadrant, accruing unthinkable expenses far beyond the original asking price, only to return home empty-handed (albeit with an extraordinarily beautiful Vulcan thespian/programmer/writer in tow). To find, waiting on his virtual doorstep, exactly what he’d been searching for.

  It just didn’t feel right.

  No, strike that. It just didn’t feel . . . over. Didn’t feel like all the pieces of the puzzle were in place.

  Quark didn’t like puzzles. Nothing about them ever proved profitable.

  On the other hand, a whole universe of potential profit awaited him on the other side of Door Number Two. He could stand here having an internal debate the rest of the day, or he could cross the threshold.

  Taking a deep breath, he spoke into the companel: “Run program.”

  The door opened. He stepped inside—

  —to find, as before, the woodlands of Ferenginar surrounding him, glistening through a veil of intense frippering. Quark plucked a mushroom that sprouted from the bark of a marrow tree . . . then tossed it aside. He was there to examine the product, and he wouldn’t allow petty algorithmic tangibles to distract him.

  Everything was the same as the first time. The beautiful river of latinum flowed nearby as T’lana’s spectacular simulacrum strutted sensually across the fungi floor, heading straight toward him. Quark was tempted to linger. His curiosity about this chapter’s climax was palpable, but he reminded himself again that he hadn’t come up here for pleasure. He had a task to perform. Rule Number Two-hundred-eighteen, he recited internally. Always know what you’re buying.

  “Computer, skip to another chapter.”

  “Sequential or random selection?” questioned the computer.

  He thought for a moment, then said, “Random.”

  The peaceful setting blurred into a shifting collage of colors and shapes, accompanied by a spellbinding chorus of groans, giggles, and apparent exclamations of exultation. Then—

  —He was in a dark, tiny chamber, lying on a low, round bed of satiny pillows and a plush throw of striped kahzinka hide. Around him, the walls were bright red, the rug black, the corners encased in shadow. There was no other furniture, no mirror, no window. The walls of the room were unadorned . . . except for a single, gleaming hoist ring, just low enough for a Ferengi male to reach—if he stood on tiptoe with his arms stretched above his head. Looped through it was a long metal chain of gold-pressed latinum. The lustrous links cascaded across the floor, seemingly flowing toward him like that precious river where he’d seen the beautiful Love Slave.

  Suddenly Quark gasped with delight. On each of his wrists was a latinum bracelet, adorned with inlaid jewel-encrusted silhouettes of unclad female Ferengi. Each bracelet was fastened with a curious clasp, ancient mechanisms consisting of rotating wheels and sliding bolts with a shackle and stem. They seemed incredibly complicated for bracelets. These must be worth a fortune, he thought, forgetting for a moment where he was. They’d be the talk of the bar if I wore them while presiding over the tongo wheel. Examining the clasps more closely, he saw that they were linked to the chains . . . which he followed to where they crisscrossed over his thighs . . . and coiled around his ankles . . . and curled across the edge of the bed . . . and traveled up the wall . . .

  To where they looped through the ring embedded in the wall.

  These aren’t bracelets, he suddenly realized. They’re manacles!

  The latinum lust that had fogged Quark’s thoughts lifted. A sense of foreboding had been lingering in his belly; now it congealed into palpable fear. I’m a prisoner! he thought. This isn’t supposed to be the story of Shmun the slave! What are they going to do to me? Is this a snuff holoprogram?!?!

  As his mind was going through contortions trying to figure out what horrible fate was awaiting him, he heard footsteps in the hallway. Heavy footsteps, accompanied by muffled clanking and an inexplicable, unsavory sloshing. The sounds were growing louder and louder, UNTIL THEY WERE RIGHT OUTSIDE HIS DOOR!

  His heart was palpitating so rapidly that he thought it was going to explode. He found his voice and frantically called out, “Computer, skip ahead! Skip ahead!”

  Then, just as frantically, he shouted, “No! Wait!” as he saw T’lana, her spectacular body clearly naked beneath smooth, translucent coveralls, enter the cell carrying two large golden buckets. She dropped them with a thud, and liquid splattered over the sides, soaking the dark rug. “It’s time for me to give you your bath, Shmun,” she was saying. “Let me unfasten your—”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hasty, Quark thought as the room spun into a blur of cacophonic images. He could go back, of course . . . But no. He knew it was time to move on.

  After several more stops along the way, he felt he’d confirmed that the program was of the high quality he’d hoped. Rionoj, apparently, had told the truth. Everything seemed to be here.

  He needed to check only one thing more.

  “Computer,” he instructed, �
��play the final chapter.”

  14

  The floor of the darkened room swayed beneath his feet. He reached out to steady himself and noticed that the wall felt curved. I’m in a boat, he decided, and he adapted his stance to ride the shifting movement. As his pupils adjusted to the light, he detected a small ladder and climbed it to the deck above, stepping into open air.

  But it was hardly a boat; he was aboard a magnificent yacht, bobbing peacefully on a smooth body of liquid—latinum once again! Many of the scenes that he’d skipped through in the holonovel had featured lustrous liquid scenarios.

  Maybe this whole adventure takes the user along a latinum passage, he thought, his pulse racing. Maybe it flows all the way to the Divine Treasury!

  The yacht was anchored in a lagoon at the base of a tall canyon. Just ahead, mist welled up in the spray of precious glistening falls that thundered from high, dropping to fill the lagoon. The canyon walls glowed amid a verdant tapestry of moss and vines. A rainbow arched overhead, reflecting and adding to the silvery-amber tones of the glassy liquid.

  Ah. So beautiful. So peaceful. If only there was such a place . . .

  As Quark leaned over the rail to admire the color and consistency of the buoyant body, his ears discerned a lilting laughter that filtered through the mist and vines. A gangplank reached from the deck of the yacht to a row of small stepping-stones protruding from the river. Steadying his nerves, Quark stepped onto the first stone, found it stable, then gingerly tested the rest until he’d reached the shore. A narrow path curved around and behind the falls. Quark followed it, relishing the tingle of excitement coursing down his spine. Behind the coruscant curtain, the path led to a cleft in the canyon wall, just wide enough for a man to enter. He paused, took a deep, quivering breath, and stepped through the entrance into—

  —a cavernous grotto carved within a mountain of glimmering gold. Precious liquid latinum percolated through the rough walls, rippling downward in delicate streams. Majestic columns stood tall in a central chamber, as if holding the ceiling in place. From the tops of the columns, continuous streams of latinum spiraled smoothly to the floor, then merged with a maze of streams that collected in a pool at the center of the room. All around him, liquid dripped with a steady, rhythmic beat, as if counting off the value, droplet by precious droplet.

  If ever there was a sound sweeter than the clado’s song, thought Quark, this is it. He moved deeper into the room, the cheerful splish-splashes of his footsteps forming a pleasant counterpoint to the staccato of the droplets—only to come to a sudden halt as he spotted what was at the far end of the enclosure.

  Females. The back wall of the grotto was covered with ravishing females. Dozens and dozens of them, each a perfect specimen of her species. Large. Small. Lean and angular. Pleasantly padded. Silky. Furry. Stripy. Pink. Green. Cerulean blue. A maelstrom of pulchritude, draped over luxurious cushions and velvet-upholstered banquettes installed within the nooks and crevices of the grotto wall. They wore very little—just enough to titillate the imagination—and they spoke in low, musical tones that drifted languidly through the moist air.

  This, he realized, was the source of the laughter he’d heard earlier. A gaggle of gals having a lovely day at . . . whatever it was. A spa? A resort?

  No, he thought, it’s a lounge. The most fabulous lounge in the galaxy. What I could do with this place!

  He smacked his lips at the thought, then smacked them again when two extremely lovely Deltans approached him, their eyes raking over him with obvious interest.

  “Hello, ladies,” Quark said. “Can a thirsty traveler get a drink around here?”

  “Libations are served free of charge to those who play the game,” said one of them.

  “The buy-in is five strips . . .” began the other, abruptly pausing to giggle as a drop of latinum fell from a stalactite to land with a splat onto her smooth pate. “Oooh,” she murmured, and her skin visibly quivered as the precious droplet slid down her brow.

  She’s ticklish, Quark thought with a start. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. Fighting the urge to lick her forehead, he stammered, “Um . . . five . . . uh . . . five strips, you said?”

  He looked down at the wardrobe that the holoprogram had assigned him as Shmun. He had no pockets, no pouch, nowhere to hold money. “I don’t seem to have any strips,” he said, “but perhaps we can find another method of payment.”

  “We’ll accept those,” responded the first Deltan, pointing toward his wrists. “They’ll work fine in leveraging your buy-in.”

  Quark glanced down, then raised his hands in surprise. He was still wearing the golden manacles from the earlier chapter. “These? I didn’t even notice that I was wearing . . .”

  Before he could react, the ticklish Deltan retrieved a pair of golden chains from a niche in the rock face and clipped them to the manacles. “Come in,” she said, pulling the startled Ferengi forward.

  Again? he thought. Oh, what the hell. It’s only a holosuite program. What’s the worst that could happen?

  The Deltan females quickly, and rather roughly, pulled him to a circular platform. Stumbling after them, Quark saw all the languid ladies lean forward on their cushy settees to stare at him and whisper among themselves. He grinned and gave them a friendly wave.

  When he’d reached the base of the platform, the ticklish Deltan gestured upward. He followed the gesture, noting that the top of the platform was at least a foot above his head. He looked around for a ladder, but there was none to be found.

  Do they want me up there? he wondered—and then he was off his feet, pulled upward by the tightened chains and a number of helpful hands that cupped his buttocks to hoist him over the edge.

  Turning to take in his surroundings, he felt a presence that made him straighten up. T’lana was standing directly behind him, barely dressed in diaphanous lace, a coy smile on her lips. She was exquisite, easily the most beautiful woman in a room filled with beautiful women. And that smile, he knew, was the smile of a Love Slave—not just any Love Slave, but the renowned Vulcan Love Slave. She might pretend to run away, she might lead him on, she might attempt to take his money—but she would always come back to him, begging for forgiveness. He had little doubt. She was his. He began to relax and enjoy himself, thinking that his quest for this program was worth the time and expense after all.

  T’lana spoke, her voice as smooth and sweet as first-pressed kanar. “I’ve been waiting for you, Shmun,” she said. “Would you like to play with me?”

  “Oh, yes,” he stated truthfully. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “Well, then, let us begin,” she said. “Acquire!”

  The girls of the grotto joined in a roar of approval. Most of them by now had gathered around the rim of the platform, looking up at him longingly.

  Stand in line, ladies, he thought. I’m still working on taming the first one.

  “Shmun.”

  Quark turned his attention back to T’lana.

  “I said, ‘Acquire,’ ” she repeated patiently. “Well, Shmun? What will it be?”

  He stood there for a second, uncertain. She sounded like she wanted to play tongo. But if he’d learned anything over the years, it was how foolhardy one would be to jump into a tongo game without first assessing the situation. There was only one logical move.

  “Evade!” he called out.

  Instantly he heard the clinking cacophony of metal hitting metal—gold-pressed latinum slips being tossed into a very large bowl at the center of the platform by the appreciative ladies around the table.

  And then the platform began to move; the ladies were jointly spinning it as though it were a big tongo wheel—which, he finally realized, it most certainly was. The room briefly became a blur—until the wheel stopped, and he found himself staring into T’lana’s magnificent almond-shaped eyes. “Buy a
t five seventy-five!” she said. “And index the exchange at ten!”

  Big stakes, Quark thought. Realizing he didn’t know how much he held in the bank, he volleyed, “I’d like to sell at fifty-three.”

  T’lana chuckled; Quark was unsure whether she appreciated his tactical prowess or felt amusement over the minuscule size of his wager. Before he could decide, the ladies again spun the wheel.

  Quark barely managed to maintain his footing as the velocity picked up. Around him, the grotto turned into a glistening golden blur, spinning, spinning, spinning. When the wheel finally jerked to a stop, Quark lost his balance and felt himself falling—

  —only to feel himself pulled upright as T’lana yanked on the chains attached to his bracelets. Her face was inches from his now, both beautiful and, truthfully, just a little intimidating.

  “Uh, thanks,” he murmured as he tried to take a wobbly step to increase the distance between them. But increasing the distance wasn’t in her plans.

  She pulled the chains again, brought him so close that he could smell the exotic Vulcan oil that anointed her flesh. “Confront,” she said, her voice sultry and oh so inviting.

  Excited murmuring rose from the circle of females who waited for Shmun’s response.

  He took a deep breath and said, “I’m converting my reserves and . . .”

  “You have no reserves,” came a voice from deeper in the grotto.

  He glanced in the direction of the anonymous voice. “I most certainly do. They’re—” He glanced around the table. She was right, he had nothing . . .

  Except, of course, for the manacles.

  “I’m converting these!” he said defiantly, thrusting his wrists toward T’lana. “Unshackle and confront!”