Rules of Accusation

by Paula M. Block

  As he turned to walk away, Quark spun around, looking for someone, anyone, upon whom to heap his anger. And then he saw Shmenge, shaking hands with Brunt as he wished him a safe journey.

  “You!” Quark said, pointing an accusing finger at his apprentice. “You’re fired!”

  Shmenge’s face fell. “But—I didn’t—”

  “Don’t grovel, lad,” Brunt said. “Not to him, anyway. How’d you like to have dinner with an Entrepreneur?”

  Shmenge’s jaw dropped, then he nodded rapidly and followed Brunt out into the Plaza.

  “Good riddance!” shouted Quark to both of them.

  Odo gestured to the next man in line, but Quark nudged the Changeling and whispered, “No. No. Him.” Odo followed Quark’s gesture directly to someone down the line. Odo recognized him at once. It was Krax, son of former Grand Nagus Zek.

  “Him? Why him?” Odo asked.

  “Because he’s had it in for me for years.”

  Odo released an exasperated sigh and waved to the surprised Krax.

  “I don’t know why I’m here,” Krax said after sitting down. “I have a great position working in the Nagal Palace with Rom. Why would I want to jeopardize that?”

  “Well,” Odo said, preempting Quark’s expected interruption. “As I recall, you were quite disappointed years ago when Quark was appointed Nagus—albeit temporarily—rather than you. Disappointed enough to make an attempt on his life.”

  Krax looked shocked. “Don’t forget that Quark’s brother was also involved in that attempt! I don’t see you accusing him of stealing the scroll himself.”

  “Rom was a different person then,” Quark said. “He was jealous of my success. These days he has everything he could possibly want.”

  “But so do I!” argued Krax. “I’m First Clerk, the power behind the throne—I don’t want to be the throne!”

  “That doesn’t mean you haven’t been plotting to destroy me all along, planning it out step by step, year by year.”

  “Playing the long con?” Odo asked, clearly amused.

  “Of course,” Quark said.

  “But what would that ultimately get him?” asked Odo, suddenly playing Krax’s advocate. “Revenge? Klingons desire revenge. Ferengi desire profit. If Krax stole the scroll, the end result would be that Rom was tossed out of office, and Krax would be out of a very cushy job.”

  “But—” Quark attempted to interrupt.

  “And besides,” Odo concluded, “Krax was in the bar for the entire party. He didn’t even get up to use the ’fresher.”

  “I have excellent self-control,” said Krax proudly.

  “You might have said that in the first place,” Quark said to Odo.

  “Why spoil the fun?” Odo responded. He turned back to Krax. “You can go,” he said. “Don’t leave the station.”

  As Krax stood, the grumbling from the Ferengi businessmen still waiting in line began to escalate.

  “Can I go too?” inquired Phlebitz. “I’m starving!”

  “This is the worst gala ever,” said Boucle. “I knew we should have left when that pair of lummoxes pushed past us in their haste to exit! One of them actually stepped on Trapunto’s foot!”

  Trapunto nodded and scowled at Quark.

  Abruptly, Odo got to his feet and walked over to the two Ferengi. “What did you just say?” he asked. “Someone left the bar before the party officially started?”

  “Yes,” said Trapunto. “They appeared to be in a hurry—although I heard one of them complaining about leaving before the appetizers were served. Not that the appetizers were worth staying for, by the way.”

  “They were horrible!” agreed Phlebitz. And seven other Ferengi within earshot voiced their agreement.

  “They weren’t horrible,” Quark shouted. “You obviously have no taste for fine cuisine!”

  The conversation threatened to turn into a full-scale brawl, but Odo hustled right past it and headed straight to the security office.

  “I need to see the footage from the area outside the bar, right before Quark dropped the field at 1900 hours,” he told Blackmer.

  The two men studied the feed and noticed that as the bulk of the guests were entering the bar, a pair of Dopterians stepped out, squeezed through the crowd, and disappeared into the Plaza.

  A quick check of the guest list confirmed that no Dopterians had been invited. However, Blackmer’s transit records revealed that a pair of them had arrived at the station via the public shuttle from Bajor early that afternoon.

  “Congratulations, Odo,” Blackmer said. “It looks as though you have two prime suspects.”

  “Mm-hmm,” the shapeshifter responded thoughtfully. “They probably got the scroll right before the guests arrived and planned to leave the station on the return shuttle to Bajor after the party.”

  “That shuttle never left,” concluded Blackmer. “So we were right. They’re good and trapped here. But where do you think they’re hiding?”

  Odo looked out into the center of the Plaza. Suddenly, he smiled. “One of them was hungry.”

  Chapter 18

  Actually, many of Quark’s Very Important Ferengi guests were hungry. From the moment they’d escaped from the embassy, they’d been foraging through the Plaza like feral berserker cats in search of sludge rats. The Replimat stood close by, but most of the businessmen bypassed it to sniff out meals more suited to their refined palates.

  After their unhappy experience at the Ferengi Embassy, the last thing anyone craved was Ferengi food, especially given that the only Ferengi food on the station came from Quark’s. Some felt bold enough to test the Klingon cuisine at tiny Aktuh and Melota. This intimate bistro, under the same Klingon management that had served on the old station, specialized in fresh racht. And racht, as all Ferengi diners know, tastes like tube grubs.

  As one would expect on a station in Bajoran space, the Plaza boasted numerous dining houses with offerings of Bajoran fare. For the more eclectic, an Andorian fast-food kiosk specialized in redbat noodle bowls. And something called a “taco stand”—very popular, if the number of hew-mons that gathered there was any indication—held forth in a location conveniently close to the main turbolift shaft.

  The Plaza’s newest—and most expensive—culinary establishment was Ibix, a Xindi-Aquatic sushi bar that recently had opened after nearly a year of construction. Reasoning that fish-filled aquariums fascinated terrestrial species, the restaurant’s architect surrounded the dining area with floor-to-ceiling panels of thick transparent aluminum. Diners watched in awe as the Xindi-Aquatic chefs practiced their art in the underwater kitchen. Once a meal was prepared, “right before the customers’ eyes” (as the investment brochure emphasized), the chef placed it on a food-grade transporter platform and beamed it to the air-breathing humanoid servers stationed in the dining area.

  The quietly elegant atmosphere within Ibix usually was punctuated by delighted sighs and grunts of pleasure as diners savored subtle slivers of sashimi, and shattered by rounds of enthusiastic applause as the cadre of chefs exhibited dazzling skills in synchronized slicing and dicing. Tonight, however, grousing and griping drowned out the more pleasant sounds. Complaints led the conversations: about being trapped on the station; about the quality of Quark’s hors d’oeuvres; about the inevitable demise of the Ferengi Alliance under “that idiot” Grand Nagus Rom. Members of Ferenginar’s exclusive Entrepreneurs’ Club barely noticed the flavor of the expensive food they were wolfing amidst their bouts of nonfood-oriented bellyaching. And Brunt, the Club’s newest member, was the loudest.

  “Quark will get what’s coming to him soon enough,” Brunt said, tossing something with wiggling tentacles into his mouth. “I’m just happy I’m here to witness his downfall.”

  Sinking into the plush banquette seat directly across from Brunt, his biggest fan nodded enthusiastically. “Me too,�
� said Shmenge, former intern to Quark, now Shmenge the unemployed. “He’s been just awful to work for.” The youth looked around in wonder as he took in his lavish surroundings and watched the Xindi-Aquatics season slices of seafood. “Thank you so much for inviting me, sir,” he said, practically hyperventilating with joy. “I’ve always wanted to come into this place, but they have ridiculous standards.”

  “Yes, well, they do require that you can pay for your meal.” Brunt chuckled. “But it’s my pleasure to treat you. You’re far too clever to spend your entire life working in a bar.” Picking up another morsel of seafood, which was doing its best to extricate itself from his grasp, he queried, “What are you planning to do next?”

  Shmenge looked down at his own plate and poked a sluggish sea urchin with a chopstick. “Well, I’m not sure. My moogie won’t pay for a second internship, and my royalties from the bar’s holosuite programs are tied up in investments on the Ferengi Futures Exchange.”

  “Well,” said Brunt, crunching down on a mollusk shell with his sharp teeth, “as I said, you’re a smart young fellow. You’ll find a way.”

  Shmenge took a deep breath. “I was hoping that . . . maybe you would take me on as . . . as an apprentice.”

  Brunt burst into laughter. “An apprentice! Nilva, did you hear that?” he called over to the neighboring table.

  “Nope,” said Nilva, who was busy slurping a bucket-size bowl of the Chef’s Special Catch-of-the-Day Miso Chowder Extravaganza.

  “He thinks that Entrepreneurs take on apprentices!”

  Nilva looked up, his face smeared with lumps of tofu and seaweed, and a Terellian crab claw clamped onto one of his ears. “Ho ho!” he chortled, and he again dropped his head into the bucket.

  Brunt leaned forward, placing his face close to Shmenge’s. “Entrepreneurs don’t have apprentices,” he explained. “Entrepreneurs only have conniving enemies, underlings fighting desperately to grab a share of the wealth!” He laughed heartily. “Actually, that’s how I got into the Club,” he said in a confidential tone. He straightened in his chair and chomped down hard on something that squeaked in protest.

  Shmenge’s face fell.

  Noting the youth’s expression, Brunt patted his hand in pseudosympathy. “Oh, buck up. Hitting rock bottom doesn’t hurt nearly as much when you’re young and flexible. Look at it this way: At least you’re not in the Nagus’s position. Loss of the Sacred Scroll! That’s about as serious a crime as I can think of—and he’s responsible! They’re going to lock him up forever!”

  And Brunt laughed and laughed, this time joined by Nilva, Chintz, Schlecht, and a dozen other very wealthy men with food in their mouths.

  Sitting quietly in a corner booth, far from the entrance and oblivious to the boisterous conversations going on around them, two slouching Dopterians silently finished their meals. A server stopped by, carrying a dessert tray, but the older of the two waved it away. “Just the check,” he said with a scowl.

  “But, HoJahn—” his partner protested.

  “Don’t whine at me,” the older of the two said. He picked up the check that the server had just delivered and held it under his partner’s nose. “You see this, Gydian?”

  “A guy’s gotta eat!” protested the younger man. “If you’d just let me have some of those yummy-looking appetizers set out for the party . . .”

  “I should have let you stay behind to eat them!” HoJahn said. “Then you’d have learned the value of a quick exit. And this,” he said, looking down again at the bill, “this’ll be your last meal if we don’t find a way to get out of here soon.”

  He stood up, pulling off a soiled bib with a picture of a crustacean on it. “Let’s get out of here. It’s not good to stay in one place for very long. Someone may notice us.”

  As if on cue, a figure stepped in front of them, blocking the light and casting a shadow over the Dopterians’ plan.

  “Leaving without dessert, gentlemen?” Odo said. “Well then, why don’t we adjourn to the new Ferengi Embassy for some . . . conversation.”

  Inside Quark’s office, HoJahn and Gydian stood facing two very agitated Ferengi as the Changeling patted them down. It took only a moment for him to find the cylinder containing the scroll in an inner pocket of Gydian’s jacket.

  HoJahn glared at his partner, who shrugged apologetically.

  Odo handed the cylinder to Rom, who burst into a huge grin. “It’s back!” he cried joyfully, giving it a kiss.

  “Ugh! Stop that, Rom,” said Quark. “You don’t know where it’s been.”

  “I know where it hasn’t been,” Rom responded, cradling it lovingly in his arms. “But now it’s back where it belongs.”

  “Okay, it’s back,” said HoJahn, slipping into his most charming, salesmanlike persona. “No harm done, right?” He turned toward the door but found the way blocked by the imposing figure of Odo.

  “I have a question for you gentlemen,” Odo began, folding his arms across his chest. “Why would you want to steal this? It’s an important relic to the Ferengi but not to other species.”

  “Are you kidding?” said HoJahn, deciding that there was no point in not telling him. “It’s written in latinum! Latinum is valuable on many planets, not just Ferenginar.”

  “And you planned to remove that latinum . . . how?” asked Odo.

  “Oh, that’s the easy part.” Gydian giggled. “We were going to burn it and extract the latinum.”

  The two Ferengi visibly staggered, then stared at the Dopterians in disbelief. “You—you were going to burn Ferenginar’s most precious relic . . . for the latinum?” said Rom.

  The would-be thieves looked proud of themselves. “Good plan, huh?” said HoJahn.

  “A STUPID plan!” hissed Quark. “A really, really, really stupid plan! If you’d bothered to do any research at all, you’d know that the latinum in this scroll is ancient. It dates back to a time before the Ferengi had the technology to properly refine latinum. It’s full of impurities—worth next to nothing on today’s latinum exchange.”

  The Dopterians sneered at the Ferengi. “Do you think we’re fools?” said HoJahn. “We scanned it after we left the bar—”

  “Embassy,” corrected Quark.

  “Whatever,” said HoJahn. “The latinum in this scroll is 99.44 percent pure, the same as the stuff that’s in circulation right now!”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Quark.

  “Oh, yeah?” HoJohn chuckled. “Just test it.”

  “I’ll show you,” Quark sputtered. He snatched the cylinder from Rom and carefully removed the scroll. Then he pulled a scanner from his desk drawer. Smiling, he activated it and ran it over the artifact.

  Rom, Odo, and the two Dopterians watched as Quark’s smile faded. He ran the scanner over the scroll a second time.

  And a third.

  “That’s . . . impossible,” the Ferengi ambassador to Bajor murmured. “Unless—”

  Eyes bulging in horror, Quark turned his gaze to meet his brother’s. A moment of silence drifted away before they shrieked, in unison:

  “It’s a FAKE!”

  Chapter 19

  Here they come, Fred thought, and he grabbed his control wand to lower the volume coming from the viewscreen.

  It had become a late-afternoon ritual. As if on cue, a gaggle of regulars, just off their work shifts, exploded through the door. Males and females of a half-dozen different species waved to catch Fred’s attention and order their favorite libations before heading to the far end of the bar where the big fellow sat spinning stories of his adventures throughout the quadrant. The men leaned on the bar, guffawing and tossing in good-natured asides about the unlikely nature of the tales, while the females clustered around the tale-teller, laughing, sighing, or crying at his verbal dexterity as he described evocative visuals of the wonders that awaited them all, just out there, far beyond the stars
.

  He sure does have a way with people, Fred thought for the hundredth time.

  A doll-like Arcadian that Fred knew to be a subspace frequency analyst climbed into the man’s lap, then stood up to lean on his shoulder as she whispered in his tiny ear. He responded by bursting into laughter, then launched into a story that most of his audience had heard before—and all seemed happy to hear again.

  Fred smiled contentedly. I know he’s got to be full of vole feckles, he thought, but as long as he keeps shoveling it, and that crew keeps buying drinks, I’m going to be one wealthy Enteroli.

  Behind the bar, the face of the female reporter from FNS, who was standing once again in the middle of Deep Space 9’s Plaza, flashed on the viewscreen. When Fred’s favorite customer saw her, he stopped in the middle of his story and asked Fred to turn up the audio.

  “. . . stolen original scroll of the Ferengi Rules of Acquisition has been recovered on Deep Space 9. Two Dopterian suspects are in custody and will be transported to Ferenginar for trial. However”—the reporter paused as the image moved in for a close-up of her face—“there may be a strange new twist in this case. Rumors are spreading throughout the station suggesting that while the recovered scroll is indeed the artifact that Grand Nagus Rom brought to the station, it does not appear to be the priceless original scroll. It is, apparently, a clever forgery.

  “The involvement of the Nagus and his brother, Ambassador Quark, in this new turn of events is unclear at this time. The Ferengi Council is said to want immediate answers.

  “Please stay with the Federation News Service for updates. This is Eisla Davis, signing off.”

  “Are you all right?” the tiny Arcadian addressed the big man. He didn’t answer. His focus was inward, on a memory from years earlier, a glimpse of himself holding a scroll: two scrolls, in fact—one in each hand.

  Had he screwed up?

  The crowd around him began to whisper among themselves, and the lovely young lady climbed out of his lap. She noticed that he kept looking at his hands, first one and then the other.