Chapter 7
The Fifth Day of Ha’mara—1813 Hours
Exquisite, Quark thought.
No other word could describe it. The re-dressed bar was exquisite. Every horizontal surface gleamed, burnished to an intense luster. Every vertical surface glistened, freshly lacquered in deep, rich jewel tones. The barstools, each reupholstered in pricey (but discounted) Corinthian leather, awaited the appreciative bottoms that would settle there. Across the room, a vast buffet of delectable replicated dishes from every corner of the quadrant rested on tables arranged to encircle a life-size ice sculpture of Gint, one hand outstretched in a symbolic offering of eternal prosperity, the other clenched into a tight fist, confirming that once you’ve achieved prosperity, you’re under no obligation to share. That frozen fist would draw the admiring eye of every entering VIF.
Exquisite, Quark thought again. Perfect, perfect, perfect.
Feeling more like an ambassador by the minute, he turned to inspect his staff. The male employees, attentively standing behind the serving counter, wore crisp new uniforms designed by Raldo of Tavela Minor, the tailor who’d replaced Garak following the Dominion War. As for the fe-male employees, they wore the chic, barely there design that had originated in Quark’s own vivid imagination.
Finally, the barkeep rested his eyes on the pièce de résistance stacked high in the center of the room: a towering pyramid of crystal champagne glasses from a manufacturer in the far-off exotic territory of Ohio, on Earth. The glasses, he knew, were a frivolous embellishment. Very few of his patrons were likely to order champagne. But something about the gleaming tower, which he’d first noted in a holovid titled “Culinary Arts and Celebratory Stylings Through the Ages—and Across the Universe!” appealed to his imagination. The glittering, delicately balanced display of fragile stemware whispered to him “No Expense Spared” (even though he’d acquired the glasses for a price that surprised even him, from a supplier who’d nervously glanced over his shoulder throughout the transaction). Guests undoubtedly would be impressed. And besides, he’d instructed his bartenders to serve all of the evening’s libations in the stemmed glasses, not just the latest offering from Château Picard. The added fee for each “crystal souvenir” would cover the cost, not to mention the requisite overtime pay to his staff.
Beyond the bar’s force field, the walla of invitees grew louder by the minute. Ah, music to my ears, Quark thought, turning his attention to the lectern he’d placed near the entrance. Hmm, something’s missing. Or, rather, someone.
“Treir?” he called out. “Dammit, Treir, where did you—”
Then his words died in his throat as the Orion dabo girl—now manager of his bar on Bajor—sashayed toward him from the back hallway.
“Relax, Quark, I was just checking my hair,” she said. She walked past him slowly, allowing him to receive the full benefit of her musky perfume, which enveloped her like a powerful cloaking (or uncloaking) shield. “You want me to look good, right?”
“I do,” Quark said. “Although I still don’t see why you refused to put on the ensemble that the other girls are wearing.”
Treir put her hands on her shapely hips. “Let’s not have that conversation again, Quark. I’m here tonight—at your request—as your gatekeeper-slash-accountant, not as your bar wench. If that doesn’t work for you, I can still make the late shuttle back to Bajor.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Quark capitulated as he watched her take her place behind the lectern. He had to admit that the gown she’d chosen—a formfitting little number made of sapphire-toned Tholian silk—provided a stunning contrast to her jade-green skin. He doubted anyone would even consider arguing when she asked to see an RSVP payment confirmation number—or, in lieu of that, when she asked for the jacked-up entrance fee.
“Hey, Quark,” came a voice from the other side of the force field. “Are you going to open up? I’ve been waiting here forever.”
Chintz, he thought, recognizing the speaker. He’d had dealings with Chintz before. The man had the patience of a hungry sehlat.
“You can read, can’t you?” Quark responded. “At 1900 hours, like it says on the invitation.”
“Well, why don’t you send out one of the dabo girls with some drinks?” Chintz suggested. “It’s the least a considerate host might do.”
“Ha, that’s a good one,” Quark said dismissively. “I’ll keep you in mind if I ever need a comedian.” As he glanced down at his padd to see if he’d overlooked anything, he heard another voice.
“But I’m hungry now!” it wailed plaintively.
“Appetizers will be available at no charge once you get inside—” he began, then paused. He realized that he knew that voice too—and the speaker wasn’t supposed to be in this line.
Quark ran to the entrance and peered through the field. “Zek! What are you doing out there?”
The former Nagus looked befuddled. “I was hungry,” he whined, “so I came here.”
“Where’s Ishka?” Quark hissed.
“Here!” came a voice from deeper into the Plaza, followed by the clacka-clacka-clacka of his mother’s footsteps as she raced toward the bar. “He got out when I wasn’t looking.” Arriving at the field, she grabbed Zek’s arm and caught her breath.
“I told you to bring him to the employees’ entrance, along with Leeta and Bena,” Quark said, sotto voce.
“I knew, I know—but I wasn’t quite ready. I was enjoying a very refreshing facial, and the next thing I knew . . .” Ishka shrugged. “You’ve been very naughty, Zekkie,” she said, pulling her charge away from the entrance. “We’ll come back in a little while.”
“Can I have some slug butter on chitin crisps?” Zek asked, his squinty little eyes pleading up at her.
“We’ll see.”
As they walked away, Quark noticed the waiting guests turn to watch the pitiful sight of the former Nagus. That’s just great, he thought. That’s exactly what I don’t want them to remember about tonight—the doddering ex-Nagus and my mother in her orthopedic slippers.
Hoping to sound ambassadorial, Quark cleared his throat loudly. All eyes swiveled toward him. “You’re minutes away from a fantastic evening, folks!” he said, sounding his most upbeat. Several members of the crowd looked dubious, so he reluctantly played his ace. “And, uh”—he took a deep breath—“the first drink is . . . uh . . .” Quark paused, fighting to get the words out. “The first drink is . . . on the house.”
A gasp of surprise, followed by a very enthusiastic cheer, waved through the crowd. But it didn’t bring joy to Quark’s businessman heart.
It brought heartburn.
Hoping for one last moment of quiet before the fray began, Quark stepped into his office and almost ran into his nervous-looking brother. While he was happy to see that Rom was waiting where they had planned to meet, he was less happy to see a greasy smear across one sleeve of the ornate chartreuse-brocade on burgundy-velvet robe he wore.
“It’s done,” Rom said, clearly oblivious to his appearance. “Everything’s set.”
Quark shook his head in disgust. “Give me your robe.”
“What?”
“Your robe,” Quark repeated, pulling it off of him. He tossed the soiled garment into the wall replicator and addressed the device. “Recycle and restore.”
“Confirm parameters of restoration,” responded the flat voice of the replicator.
Quark glanced at Rom. “Do you really like this color?” he asked.
Rom looked offended. “I love that color. Leeta picked it out.”
Quark shrugged. “Recycle and restore. Duplicate exactly—except for the grease.”
The soiled robe vanished in a cluster of sparkles and, a second later, a fresh duplicate appeared. Quark tossed it to Rom. “So . . . you finally got the force field activated in the lounge? Took you long enough.”
The Nagus
frowned at his brother as he pulled on the new robe. “I would have been done a lot sooner if you’d let me ask Chief O’Brien to help.”
“I told you—you can’t let any outsiders touch it.”
Rom looked incredulous. “Not even the chief? He’s the most trustworthy hew-mon I’ve ever met.”
“Not even the chief,” Quark insisted. “Look, you’re the one who was all nervous about taking it out of storage and bringing it here. You’ve got to keep your chain of accountability intact. If only one person is responsible for handling it, there’s only one link in the chain. Makes sense, right?”
Rom sighed. “Yeah. I guess.”
“So just relax—and concentrate on your speech. You do have a speech written, don’t you?”
Rom nodded and sat down wearily in Quark’s desk chair. “Leeta helped me update the one from last time. When we dedicated the embassy at the old station.”
Quark looked up, startled. “You didn’t write a new one?”
“I was going to, but Leeta—”
Quark rolled his eyes. “Let me guess: She convinced you that all you had to do was change the date and a few adjectives here and there.”
“Sort of. I’ve been busy. I didn’t have time to write a whole new speech, so it seemed like a good idea.”
“And never mind that the same important people are here and they probably remember the old speech. Never mind that it makes the whole occasion seem like someone’s hand-me-down. Never mind that—”
Rom abruptly got to his feet and walked over to Quark. “Now listen, Brother. You said it yourself—they came here to see the scroll, not to eat your hors d’oeuvres, and not to see me. The last time we did this, most of them spent so much time partying that they barely paid any attention to me.”
Quark stared at Rom for a minute, a touch surprised at the display of backbone, then cleared his throat and changed the subject. “I wouldn’t be so sure about the hors d’oeuvres. I’m sure they’ll be raving about these for weeks.”
There was a knock at the door, and before Quark could say, “Enter,” Leeta, Bena, Ishka, and Zek, all dressed in their Ferengi finest, entered the office. Leeta and Bena headed straight for Rom, who kissed his daughter on the forehead and his wife on the lips. Zek waddled over to Quark’s desk chair and immediately sat down. “Where’s the grub?” he addressed Quark. “Tube grub, that is. Ha ha ha ha.”
“Oh, Zekkie, you’re so silly,” Ishka said, stepping around behind him and patting his bald head lovingly.
Quark studied the newcomers for a moment, a frown on his face. “How did you get in just now?”
“Don’t worry, Quark, we used the servers’ entrance in the back, just like you said,” Ishka soothed.
“Right. But . . . did you ring the bell?” he asked. “I didn’t hear it, and believe me—it’s plenty loud. Who let you in?”
“Nobody let us in,” Leeta responded. “Bena ran to the door and it opened right up. We figured Treir saw us coming and triggered the door.”
Quark rubbed his chin. “Maybe,” he said as he pondered the possibility. “I’ll check with her before we open—”
There was another knock. This time it was Frool. “That woman Eisla Darvis is here with her crew. You said to let you know when she showed up.”
Quark’s eyes lit up. “Great timing! I’ll go talk to her.”
Leeta’s eyes widened. “Eisla Darvis? Ooooh, I love her FNS reports. Is she here to talk to Rom?”
“Rom?” Quark gave her a disdainful glance as he followed Frool out of the room. “Why would she want to talk to Rom?”
The door hissed shut behind him, leaving the remaining occupants in uncomfortable silence. Leeta put a comforting hand on her husband’s shoulder, but he smiled to let her know he wasn’t offended. “This is Quark’s party,” he said. “I’m just the Nagus.”
Zek looked up abruptly. “You? I thought I was the Nagus.”
Rom, Leeta, and Ishka sighed.
Chapter 8
Mudd’s Interstellar Travel Guide to the Alpha Quadrant (182nd Federation edition) recommends little about the backwater world of Enterol VI. “Humanoids,” the guide states, “will find the M-class planet’s air breathable.” That may be the guide’s strongest recommendation. It goes on to state that the planet has but two seasons: one arid (“stiflingly hot”), the other monsoonal (“distinctly dank”). Historic surface architecture is negligible, as the Enteroli (the primary indigenous species) pack their mud-walled domiciles into subterranean caverns. These structures are equipped with the latest technology, and furnishings are considered “modern and tasteful by most standards.” But flashy, they’re not.
The Enteroli—insectoids of varying shapes and hues—are “amiable and hospitable.” As the guide delicately points out, off-worlders often report that their appearance gives them (in Federation parlance) the “heebie-jeebies.” As for lodging, “bed and breakfast visitors would be advised to skip the breakfast.”
Such reviews (there are others) garner general dismay among local Commerce Commission officials, for they do little to engender tourism.
The one thing Enterol VI does have going for it—to which Mudd’s makes only passing reference—is the planet’s orbital refueling station, the only one in the sector. The station includes all the amenities travelers might require while awaiting service on their ships: liquid and sonic showers; nap rooms; a replimat; a gift shop that features, among other necessities, an assortment of fresh undergarments for two-legged, six-legged, and eight-legged customers; and a small but well-stocked saloon.
The owner of the saloon, a good-natured Enteroli whose given name required enough clicks, chits, and chirrups to stymie flabby humanoid tongues, encouraged customers to call him Fred.
By his species’ standards, Fred was considered quite handsome. His two-meter vertical stature was blessed with a shiny silver segmented carapace; his dark, compelling compound eyes, offset by the graceful antennae that curled just a bit at the tips, drew the eye of many a nymph. Those debonair good looks, however, were lost on non-Enteroli. A human couple from Copernicus City once informed Fred that he resembled a giant silverfish, which he inferred, given their expressions, was not a compliment. But Fred won their adoration with his killer martinis and images from home on the ultra-jumbo viewscreen that hung behind his bar. He generally set the viewscreen to receive transmissions of regional sporting tournaments, but occasionally switched to the Federation News Service for reports of Starfleet transports headed into the region. Starfleeters, he was aware, drank a lot of martinis.
The saloon was nearly empty at the moment, but Fred expected a Cardassian trawler later that day. A quick check of his inventory confirmed that he had an unopened crate of kanar in the back room. And while he didn’t carry many traditional Cardassian food stocks in his pantry, he counted a dozen dusty bottles of yamok sauce. Opening one, Fred inserted a slender claw into the bottle, withdrew a drop, and poked it into his mouthparts.
Umm. Tangy. And still fresh. Good. That should make whatever I serve them palatable, he thought.
Returning to the bar, he glanced at his lone customer. The fellow was snoring softly, his face pressed into the polished surface of the bar, his large head framed by a half circle of empty martini glasses.
The Enteroli studied the customer thoughtfully. Fred had no idea where he had come from, or where he might be headed, but he certainly was becoming a fixture around the place. Which was fine, because his jokes were quite amusing. And he paid latinum for everything.
Speaking of which—I suspect he’ll want another soon.
Fred pulled a clean shaker off the shelf with one of his right pincers and grabbed a few bottles with his two left. Deftly measuring the appropriate proportions from the appropriate containers, Fred vibrated the shaker rapidly.
The cheerful sloshing sound brought about the predictable effect. His cust
omer opened one bloodshot eye and focused blearily on the shaker, then retrieved the closest empty martini glass and extended it toward Fred.
Fred filled the glass to the brim. “There you go. Just the way you like it.”
The big fellow sat up, blinking as he looked around the saloon, fixating finally on the viewscreen. He tilted his head to one side quizzically.
“FNS,” responded Fred. “I think they’re going to cover the entertainment news next.”
With his free hand, the customer signaled Fred to increase the volume. Fred obliged, and he joined him in watching the image up on the screen of a slender human woman with golden follicular outgrowths atop her head and proportionally oversize chest glands. She was standing in front of the entrance to a saloon that was many times the size of Fred’s. A three-dimensional chyron displaying her name popped out of the screen and hung in the air:
“EISLA DARVIS, FNS SPECIAL REPORTS,” it read.
“Just a short time from now,” the woman said, “eminent Ferengi from across the quadrant will gain admittance to this facility to celebrate the dedication of their new embassy on Space Station Deep Space 9.”
The camera transmitting the FNS feed refocused just over Eisla Darvis’s shoulder to reveal a crowd of large-eared individuals decked out in garish clothing, milling about in front of the saloon. To Fred, they appeared rather bored, although he knew he wasn’t the best interpreter of humanoid facial expressions. One of them spotted the camera and waved, no doubt hoping to extend his few seconds of fame.
The focus returned to Eisla Darvis’s face. “The guest of honor is Ferenginar’s current Grand Nagus Rom. I understand that the Grand Nagus has brought something very special with him, and I have a gentleman here who can tell us more about that.”
She turned, and the camera panned with her to focus on the face of the gentleman, who was grinning very broadly with a set of very sharp teeth. Another identifying chyron popped out of the screen. Unfortunately for the gentleman, it was so long that it covered half of his face:
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