STAR TREK: DS9 - Prophecy and Change

by Marco Palmieri, Editor

  “Then you are an honorable fool!”

  Still his gaze didn’t waver. “There are all kinds of honor, D’Ghor. I simply realized that I make a much better bartender than a warrior. So if I’m going to go, I might as well go out doing what I do best. Better to be remembered as a good Ferengi than a bad Klingon.”

  “Either way is fine with me!” D’Ghor cried, hefting his bat’leth.

  “Are you sure?” Quark asked. “Seems to me you’re in the same boat.”

  That gave D’Ghor pause. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re trying to be a Klingon and a Ferengi at the same time, just like I was. And you’re making just as much of a hash out of it.”

  “You will suffer for that!” But D’Ghor was listening now, curious to know the precise parameters of the insult before he avenged it.

  “A true Klingon wouldn’t care about profiting from his enemy’s defeat. He wouldn’t use the pretense of honorable combat to hide the fact that he was stealing. So obviously you’re not much of a Klingon.”

  That was enough for D’Ghor. He lunged, but Quark’s defensive reflexes were faster. He ducked under the bar, and by the time D’Ghor leapt over to search for him, he’d scurried out from behind, disappearing into the darkness. “But as a Ferengi,” he went on, positioning himself so the room’s acoustics would mask his position, “you’re a joke. Retrieving disintegrated elements from interphase? You call that cost-effective?” D’Ghor stormed over in his general direction, swinging his bat’leth and knocking over tables, the noise handily masking Quark’s movement elsewhere. “I mean, the expense of it all ... the sensors, the operators, the retooling of the transporters ... and all for a few sprinklings of precious metal. You can barely break even with a scheme like that! You could make much more profit marketing the Reletek sensors for other uses. Really, D’Ghor,” Quark laughed from under the dabo table, “as money-making schemes go, this is one of the most idiotic ones I’ve ever heard of.”

  “PetaQ!” D’Ghor snarled, smashing some more furniture. “You think this is just about profit?”

  “Isn’t that what it’s always been about?” Quark was already scuttling toward his next hiding spot. “Acquiring Grilka’s wealth any way you could?”

  But he felt D’Ghor’s grip on his collar, and then he was flying through the air to slam against the bar. He scrambled to his knees, cornered, as D’Ghor loomed over him. “Maybe before it was. But she—and you—forced me into disgrace! You ruined my good name! This way, I humiliate Grilka by stealing her wealth from before her eyes, with her left none the wiser! The metals I retrieve from out-phase may only just balance the expense, but it is worth it to wreak vengeance upon her, while regaining my reputation as a warrior!”

  Yes! Got it! Quark kept talking to distract him for a few seconds more. “So your reputation is a sham by Klingon rules, and your profit-making scheme is a sham by Ferengi rules. You’re pathetic, D’Ghor—you don’t make the grade by anyone’s standards of honor!” Where is he? “At least I’m true to my Ferengi principles. So I die a more honorable man than you.”

  “So long as you die!” The bat’leth swung, and Quark squeezed his eyes shut, convinced he’d miscalculated at the final moment and hoping the Divine Exchequer would place the blame where it belonged, on Odo. But then he heard a welcome squishing, oozing sound. He opened his eyes to see D’Ghor’s sword centimeters from his head, held in place by a golden pseudopod stretching down from the ceiling. A second later, a large mass of goo landed on the Klingon, knocking him to the ground, and swiftly reformed into Odo.

  “What took you so long?” Quark demanded. “You had his confession! Didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Quark. It’s recorded. You can always count on Klingon bluster.” He turned one of his contemptuous excuses for a smile on Quark. “I just wanted to see if you had any last confessions you might want to make.”

  “Never.” Quark smirked. “Secrets are valuable—I wouldn’t help my chances of getting into the Divine Treasury if I gave them away at the last moment.”

  As Odo pulled the dazed, disarmed D’Ghor to his feet, the Klingon glared daggers at Quark. “You swore on your honor that we were alone!”

  “What can I say? I told you I was true to my principles.” He lifted his head proudly. “I lied.”

  “... So that’s the bottom line,” Quark said. Facing Grilka was, in f its way, even harder than facing D’Ghor had been. This time he didn’t have Odo to protect him from the consequences. “The person you’ve been trying to change me into ... it’s not the person I’m supposed to be. I let myself forget that ... because I love you.” To his surprise and relief, she was listening patiently, absorbing his words, rather than throwing the usual Klingon fit of melodrama. But Quark’s fear was that she was just building up slowly to one hell of an eruption. He couldn’t tell one way or another from her stony countenance.

  “So ... because I love you ... I used trickery to win you over. Made it look like I was a fighter, went through all the motions of Klingon romance. And that got me what I wanted ... at first. But I’ve had to keep lying to hold onto you, to make the lie bigger, and it got to the point where I was lying to myself.” He shook his head slowly. “I’m not a warrior, Grilka. I’m a businessman. I live by a Ferengi code, not a Klingon one.

  “And a Ferengi doesn’t give something away for nothing. But that’s just what I’ve been doing. This is a one-sided relationship, Grilka—I put my business, my health, my self-respect, my life on the line to please you, and all you do is ignore and ridicule everything I believe in. Any way you add it up, I’m taking a huge loss here.

  “So if you can’t make an effort to respect my culture ... to accept me for who I am ... to let me be true to my own kind of honor ... then it’s over.” He winced at the sound of it, but refused to falter. “I don’t want it to be over, Grilka. I love you. But this is the way it has to be.”

  She studied him silently for several long moments more. Then she rose and moved slowly toward him. “I admire your conviction, Quark. And what you say is ... very wise.”

  He brightened. “Then ... you can change? Learn to love me as a Ferengi?”

  Grilka met his gaze, held it intently, and said ... “No.” Quark sagged. “I am sorry. But only a Klingon heart can beat as one with mine.” She looked away. “Perhaps that is my failing, not yours. You deserve someone who can accept and love a Ferengi as an equal. I am not that one.”

  Quark tried to sort out the feelings that churned through him ... and settled on the safest one. “Fine,” he snapped, striding toward the exit. “It’s your loss, sweetheart.” He stopped to throw her a smug look. “Well, at least you still have your financial solvency. Oh, wait ... thanks to me and my filthy Ferengi ways. Isn’t that ironic.”

  He resumed his dramatic exit, but Grilka’s voice stopped him in mid-huff. “In fact ... my finances could stand some improvement after recent events. But a good advisor is hard to find.”

  A few moments passed. “I know someone who might be persuaded ... for a reasonable fee.”

  “Certainly. Such compensation would be only fair.”

  Quark shared a bittersweet smile with himself. “Give me some time. I’ll let you know.”

  The last thing Quark wanted to see right now was more Klingons. So naturally this was the day the Rotarran had returned, and its crew had commandeered Quark’s bar to carouse and head-butt and Qapla’ the hell out of each other in celebration of some glorious victory. It would’ve given Quark a headache even if it hadn’t been a reminder of what he’d just been through. But at least the Rotarran’s return meant that Jadzia was back, and she’d taken time out of the Klingonalia to commiserate with him. No matter what, he could always count on the beautiful Trill to lend a sympathetic ... dainty ... incredibly sensual ear. But he shook off that line of thought. That way lay madness.

  “My mistake was in not paying attention to the Rules,” he insisted. “The warnings are all over. ‘Females and finances don’t mi
x.’ ‘Latinum lasts longer than lust.’ ‘She can touch your lobes but never your latinum.’ ”

  “But,” offered Jadzia in return, “ ‘Beware the man who doesn’t make time for oo-mox.’ Two-twenty-three, right?”

  “But that,” Quark countered, pointing a finger, “is because that man has his head together. He isn’t distracted by lust or ... or other emotions. He’s focused on his business like a laser. And that’s what I need to be. I have to rebuild my reputation as a businessman. I need to get back the momentum I had going there. I was really on a roll, Jadzia! I could feel it all coming together. Because I was focused on profit. No distractions, no females to warp my priorities ... just the bright, beaconlike glow of latinum pointing the way.”

  “Hmm ... bright but cold,” Jadzia said with one of those sexy—one of those thoughtful pouts of hers.” And lonely. What’s the point of accumulating all that wealth if you can’t share it with a special lady? Or at least use it to impress the ladies.” She smirked, a Curzonian leer peeking through.

  “That’s Federation thinking.”

  Jadzia took his hand, her touch sending chills through him like a shot of ice-cold Aldebaran whiskey. “It’s your way of thinking, whether you realize it or not. Face it, Quark—you’re an incurable romantic. You crave love just as much as latinum.”

  “Well ... if it pleases you to think so, go right ahead.” He sighed. “But even if that’s true ... why do I keep falling for all these alien females? Cardassians, Klingons ... strong, independent, assertive,” he sneered. “No wonder it always goes badly for me. No—from now on, I should stick to nice, pliant Ferengi females, who do what they’re told and don’t cause trouble.”

  “Like Rom’s ex-wife?” Jadzia challenged. “Or your mother?” she added even more pointedly.

  “Aa-ah,” Quark cautioned. “Rule Thirty-one!”

  “I’m not making fun of her. I’m just saying, Ishka was your main female role model growing up. So maybe it’s no wonder you like strong, independent, assertive women.”

  “I do not like that kind of female. If Moogie’s had any influence at all, it’s been to set a bad example that I need to get away from. No. From now on, it’s quiet, unassuming, passive females for me.”

  Jadzia glared at him like a tongo player calling his bluff. “You’d be bored out of your mind within a month! Where’s the challenge in a relationship like that?”

  “Challenge?”

  “That’s right, Quark. That’s why you keep going after that type of woman. Because it isn’t easy. Because what you want isn’t just handed to you—you have to work for it, bargain for it.” She leaned her face close to his, those vivid blue eyes sparkling like the purest sapphires. “It’s the thrill of the deal, Quark. That’s what you love. Taking a chance. Going up against the odds. Negotiating with a tough, canny competitor for romantic gain. ‘The riskier the road, the greater the profit.’ ” She clasped his shoulder. “You are far too much of a Ferengi to be satisfied with anything less.”

  Quark had no idea how long he spent gazing into those eyes. But eventually some of the Klingons called out to Jadzia, insisting that she join in their carousing. “Think about it.” She smiled at Quark and went over to them.

  What a woman, he moaned to himself as he watched her glide gracefully away. A challenge, hmm? Like, maybe, winning you away from Worf ... ? Ohh, yes, Jadzia dear. I’ll think about it.

  Three Sides to Every Story

  Terri Osborne

  Historian’s note: This story spans the sixth-season episodes “Behind the Lines,” “Favor the Bold,” and “Sacrifice of Angels.”

  Terri Osborne

  Terri Osborne escaped the wilds of Indiana shortly after college, spending ten years in Boston, Massachusetts, before finding her way to the urban jungle of New York City. Her first story was written at the tender age of six.

  While sitting in a convention hall at the age of twenty-three, Terri heard Ronald D. Moore talk about how he’d sold the script for “The Bonding” at that age. In the arrogance of youth, she immediately thought that she could do that. That was 1993.

  In 2001, Keith R.A. DeCandido finally managed to convince her that her work didn’t actively suck and might be publishable after all.

  “Three Sides to Every Story” marks her first professional sale. She can be found on the Web at .

  She owes innumerable words of gratitude to Marco Palmieri for being willing to take the risk on new writers, suggesting things that always made the story better, and generally making the experience a good one.

  This story is dedicated to the memory of John Haznedl, another talented artist taken too soon.

  “Again?”

  Jake slumped back onto the sofa with a sigh, filing away his twenty-second rejected article in as many days. No matter how much he tried to bury his writing style or how much he fought his instincts and tried to portray the Dominion objectively, nothing worked. Weyoun never failed to find something in an article that wasn’t “balanced” enough for his liking. Jake was beginning to think that, despite the Vorta’s insistence to the contrary, nothing short of Dominion propaganda would get his articles for the Federation News Service past Weyoun’s watchful eye.

  Leaning his head back, he stared at the relentless gray ceiling of his quarters. In the months since the Dominion had taken Deep Space 9—he refused to think of it by its Cardassian name of Terok Nor—he’d felt like a hamster on a wheel, going through the motions and getting nowhere.

  Home had never felt so much like a prison.

  He’d heard stories from the local Bajorans about what life had been like during the Occupation—the forced labor, the stench of poverty, the wails of starving children lining the Promenade—and wondered if that would happen again. With Dukat in charge, even though he now answered to Weyoun, a return to those conditions was a possibility that couldn’t be ruled out. Dukat was still Dukat, and some things were as inevitable as the sun rising over the Dahkur Hills. The Bajorans fighting Cardassian rule was high on that list.

  Kira and Odo had both denied it when he’d approached them, but Jake was sure they were putting together a resistance cell. He’d caught wind of it from one of Quark’s dabo girls. Besides, Jake had known Kira for five years. She would never willingly work with the Cardassians without trying to get rid of them. Kira Nerys was no collaborator.

  There has to be a way to help, something she can’t do that I can.

  A smile crept across Jake’s features as an idea hit. “Nothing like killing two birds with one stone,” he said, pulling his eyes away from the depressing blandness of the ceiling. It would work. It had to work.

  He needed some way to get his stories out there, in the faint hope that they might somehow make it to the FNS. He’d overheard Kira say something to Odo about trying to find a way to communicate with their contacts on Bajor, but without going through the usual subspace channels. Combining the two objectives was simple.

  He didn’t have any idea how it was going to work, but that was a bridge they could burn when they got to it.

  Everything would depend on Kira going for the idea. Where would she be at this hour? Probably Quark’s. She’s been spending more time there lately. Can’t say as I blame her, with all of the Cardassians in ops these days.

  Grabbing a padd, he headed for the door.

  “Solve Kira’s problem, and she might let you in,” Jake muttered as he walked through the hustle and bustle of the Promenade. While the place was still as busy as it had ever been under his father’s command, Jake couldn’t remember feeling so alone. He was surrounded by a sea of Cardassian gray, broken only by one of the preternaturally pale Vorta or the scaly features of a Jem’Hadar. The few Bajorans he could see looked as though they wanted nothing more than to fade into the proverbial woodwork.

  The difference in the sights he could handle. Life as a Starfleet brat had long since accustomed him to that. What bothered him the most was that even the smells were different.
The Klingon restaurant had closed shortly after the first Dominion troops began heading toward Cardassia, and Jake found he missed the harsh smells of fresh gagh and rokeg blood pie that had been a part of the place for as long as he could remember. Sometimes, walking by Chef Kaga’s establishment reminded him of the days the crawfish were delivered to his grandfather’s restaurant.

  Where the Klingon cuisine was distinctive in smell, Jake found Cardassian food to be something purely nauseating to anyone with a respect for food. He wasn’t sure of the source, but the aroma of Cardassian tojal wafting his way smelled more like something from the garbage heap behind Sisko’s Creole Kitchen than from the menu of a legitimate eatery.

  The vendors who’d been there for as long as Jake could remember were having a difficult time with the transition. His old friend who ran the jumja kiosk smiled as Jake passed, but turned a hollow expression to an inquisitive Vorta inspecting his wares.

  Quark, however, had done nothing but adjust the settings on his replicators. It was still the same business, just with a different clientele. Jake took a small amount of comfort in the idea that some things never changed.

  He noticed one other thing missing as he walked toward Quark’s bar—the noise. He’d spent the last few years growing accustomed to the endless chatter and intermittent screams of “Dabo!” Cardassians, however, weren’t as demonstrative as Bajorans or humans when they won. More often than not, they simply pumped a fist in the air and placed their next bet. Between that and the ever-present, distressingly silent Jem’Hadar—who Jake figured visited the bar only because Weyoun had ordered them to mingle—the volume in Quark’s had decreased by several dozen decibels since the Dominion’s arrival.

  Jake searched the bar for Kira, but found it filled with off-duty Cardassians and Jem’Hadar soldiers. He was about to head back to his quarters to begin putting his idea into writing when he caught sight of someone sitting at a table on the second level. Is that who I think it is?