“Thanks,” I say without much enthusiasm.
Chek’s wife doesn’t speak or even meet Quark’s gaze. She merely holds her hand out until he gives her the latinum, then places it in a metal strongbox and tenders two tickets from the same box.
Until recently, all Ferengi females were kept housebound and uneducated, expected not only to prepare I and serve their family’s food but also to chew it for their husbands and male offspring. Grand Nagus Zek’s first wave of reforms dramatically improved the status of females in most households.
Chek’s is obviously not one of them.
For twenty-two years, Grand Nagus Zek was the brains of the Ferengi Alliance, opening up new territories for exploitation and exploring previously unexplored ways to make a profit. Then, seemingly without explanation, Zek began instituting a series of radical social reforms.
The first sign of his altered perspective was his declaration that females were to be treated like males in Ferengi society. In other words, they were to be allowed to wear clothes, get an education, speak to males who weren’t family … even earn profit.
To the average Ferengi, this was nothing short of heresy. But Zek wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.
Soon afterward, he came up with a collection of social welfare programs, including retirement benefits, wage subsidies, and worldwide health care. And to pay for it all, he called for a progressive income tax.
He then diluted his own power by creating a congress of economic advisors who had to ratify anything the grand nagus proposed. In other words, Zek began to steer Ferengi civilization in the direction of democracy.
Suddenly, monopolies were illegal. Corporations couldn’t dump toxic waste in lakes and rivers anymore. Laborers were granted rights under the law. This was worse than heresy. It was absolute bedlam.
And who was responsible for this veritable upheaval in Ferengi philosophy? Who had single-handedly turned an entire starfaring civilization on its large, highly developed ear?
According to Quark, not Zek. He was the one who implemented the changes, certainly, but he wasn’t the intelligence behind them. In fact, the mastermind was none other than Quark’s mother, Ishka, a forceful, enterprising female whom Quark’s brother Rom still affectionately calls “Moogie.”
That’s the same Rom who recently succeeded Zek as grand nagus. And who do you suppose gave Zek that idea?
There are twelve Ferengi seated around a table in Chek’s sumptuously appointed dining room, where portraits of his esteemed and well-dressed ancestors adorn the walls. (Prints can be obtained for a nominal donation, according to a small sign that appears below each of them.)
Chek’s wife comes by and offers to chew my food for me, perhaps seeing that I haven’t touched my plate of fleas, beans, and tube grubs. I hold a hand up to politely decline her suggestion, even less tempted by the prospect of a masticated grub than a whole one.
“Well, then,” Chek announces in a stentorian voice as he pushes away his empty plate, “I hope you’ve all enjoyed your meal. Now let’s get down to business, shall we?”
“Let’s do that,” Quark agrees.
“The question,” says another Ferengi, “is what we’re going to do about Zek’s so-called reforms.”
“And this idiot Rom that he’s made grand nagus,” someone else adds. He glances at Quark. “No offense intended.”
“None taken,” Quark grumbles.
“If things don’t change,” remarks another Ferengi, “we’ll have a monetary collapse worse than the last one.”
“Rampant inflation,” Chek elaborates, unable to suppress a shudder of fear. “Currency devaluation.”
“We can’t let it happen,” says the Ferengi on his right.
“We’ll stand up to this Rom!” someone ventures animatedly. He looks around the table for a vote of confidence.
There are signs of hesitation all around the room. After all, Ferengi have historically been very reluctant to defy their nagus, no matter how big a problem he may pose. For a moment, it’s not certain that the vote of confidence will come.
Then Quark speaks up, his eyes steely with resolve. “Dorl’s right. We have to refuse to go along with the reforms that Zek instituted.”
“Even though Rom’s your brother?” Chek asks searchingly.
Quark frowns. “You know the 6th Rule of Acquisition—‘never allow family to stand in the way of opportunity.’”
The dining room rings with cheers of approval. Quark’s immediate neighbors slap him on the back in comradely fashion. Even Chek’s ancestors seem pleased as they look down on the proceedings.
Apparently, Grand Nagus Rom is going to have to prove his mettle. He’s going to have to show Ferenginar that he’s got more going for him than his blood tie to Zek’s life-partner.
Then again, these conspirators around Chek’s table are going to be tested as well. They’ll be risking their reputations, their profits, their sacred business licenses.
However, as the 62nd Rule of Acquisition clearly reminds us, “The riskier the road, the greater the profit.”
Months earlier this house was the site of a summit between the factions, Grand Nagus Rom asked the Grand Nagus Emeritus Zek to preside. Quark reported that there was no movement. This left the traditionalists with one possible course—revolution.
DANULA II
THE FOOTFALLS OF TRADITION
When the first Academy Marathon was held following the historic Khitomer Peace Accords, the participants scarcely imagined what they’d set in motion. This piece, which hangs in the building at the Sharifi Rescue Site, was originally commissioned by the then commandant of the Academy to commemorate the first race. The other half hangs in the SportsCenter on the Academy grounds.
There’s a shallow furrow cut into the dry, cracked earth at my feet. It extends for a good thirty meters in either direction—enough to accommodate the fifty-five cadets who’ll be testing their endurance this day.
A huge copper sun beats down on us from an immense purple-blue sky, stinging our flesh despite the salve we all wear, trying to sap our strength even before we’ve begun. In recognition of the difficult circumstances, Admiral Baker-Bowles wastes no time jogging over to one end of the shallow furrow and raising his arm.
I bend forward, plant my hands against the rough, dusty ground, and flex my knees as if nestling into starter’s blocks. On either side of me, the other runners do the same. Then we eye the admiral again, trying to remain calm despite the inevitable heart-pounding rush of adrenaline. Baker-Bowles brings his arm down and we take off as one, a wave of cranberry and black washing across the colorless, barren land.
We won’t finish that way, however. One of us will cross the finish line ahead of all the others. We just don’t know who it will be yet.
The first Academy marathon celebrated the Khitomer Accords, the peace agreement between the Federation and the Klingon Empire that reshaped galactic politics eighty-two years ago. This marathon marks an even more important event—the end of our war with the Gamma Quadrant’s Dominion, a war that claimed hundreds of thousands of Federation lives and threatened to make slaves of us had we lost.
Arrayed across the harsh environment of Danula II, the marathon course has changed several times over the years. The mean temperatures and the course profiles drive home the accomplishments of those who finish the race.
The race was—and still is—run on the parched plains and in the rocky hills of Danula II, a harsh world that hasn’t supported life in at least a hundred thousand years. Why hold a marathon here? Tradition holds that the Academy commandant in 2293, a woman named Sharifi, had crash-landed on Danula II in her youth—and that she was so heartened by her ability to survive there, she wanted to pass the gift on to her cadets. Another account says she simply picked the place at random.
Needless to say, the Academy favors the first story.
Fourteen kilometers into the race, we’re entering the highlands. I trudge up a long, barren slope, quadriceps burning,
breath sawing painfully in my throat. Manute, a tall, lanky Bolian in the engineering curriculum, grunts and gasps alongside me.
The leaders, all formidable runners, are clustered in a pack seven or eight meters ahead of us. Everyone else is trailing us by twenty meters or more. Neither Manute nor I was expected to do this well at the outset, so we’re rather pleased with ourselves.
However, there’s something about being so near the vanguard that makes me greedy. I tell myself that if I can get to the top of the hill in good shape, I’ve got a chance to surprise some people. With a little luck, maybe I can even win.
Each competitor has been given a supply of half a dozen forced-release electrolyte capsules, which we carry in a small pouch attached to our left arms. I open the pouch, take out a capsule and swallow it. As the stuff washes through me, feeding my starved tissues, I feel invigorated. My legs don’t hurt so much anymore either.
After a while, I realize that Manute has dropped back a few meters. I’m surprised. I don’t remember him slowing down and I can’t imagine that I’ve sped up. Refocusing my attention on the pack ahead of me, I try to ignore the heat and the dust and press on.
Over the years, the Academy marathon has generated tales of courage and perseverance in the face of adversity. None of them is more stirring than the famous finish of 2323.
There were four favorites in that race, it seems: Fergus McLeod, the winner of Earth’s Boston Marathon in the sixteen-and-under category; Reggic Sipanos, a scaly, bronze-skinned Tessma who had won a few championships of his own; and a couple of grim, gray-maned Arkarians.
The four of them ran neck and neck from the start, each one pushing hard in an attempt to leave the others behind. The result was a faster pace than any of them had really intended.
At the halfway point, there was no one else in sight—which was a good thing from their point of view, because they were all starting to run a little ragged. But as the race wore on, a slender human began to gain on them.
At twenty-five kilometers, they still had a hundred meters on him. At thirty kilometers, their lead wasn’t much more than seventy meters.
But none of the front runners could believe the upstart was really a threat. For one thing, he was a freshman, and no freshman had ever won the Academy marathon. For another, none of them had ever raced against him before. He was a complete unknown.
Sometimes one kilometer more is one too many. Win or lose, however, every runner in the Academy Marathon knows they race into history.
I see the thirty-kilometer beacon blazing a bright, fiery red in the distance—and I still haven’t lost touch with the pack. The Bolian, on the other hand, has dropped out of sight behind a gravel-strewn hillside.
I’ve gone through four of my six electrolyte capsules—too many, probably, at this point in the race. After all, with the burnished sun climbing steadily in the sky, it’s only going to get hotter. But if I hadn’t used all four of those caps, I wouldn’t have been able to keep up the pace.
My legs are starting to feel rubbery with fatigue. Just for a moment, I think about how good it would feel to stop and rest. But I won’t let myself do that. I go on.
Back in 2323, the four favorites were still bunched together when they reached Heartbreak Hill, the last and easily the most grueling leg of the course. After competing for thirty-five hot, brutal kilometers, none of them was eager to tackle a twenty-five degree incline that climbs into the sun for three thousand meters.
However, they knew that the race would be won or lost on that dry, crumbling slope, so they gritted their teeth and kept going. The Arkarians, who were renowned for their endurance, were nonetheless the first to give ground. Then came the Tessma. McLeod was all alone, it seemed, as he headed for the crest of the hill.
But before he could reach it, he heard the scrape of approaching footsteps. Thinking that Sipanos or one of the Arkarians had gotten a second wind, McLeod looked back over his shoulder—and saw the unheralded freshman he had long ago written off. The man was gradually closing the gap.
McLeod lost in the last twenty meters. The first-year cadet who beat him was Jean-Luc Picard, who later made a name for himself as captain of the Stargazer and then the Enterprise-D and -E. Some say Picard was burn to lead; others insist his character was forged that day on Danula II.
Though I’m down to my final electrolyte cap, I’m running easily on the flats between the thirty-four-kilometer marker and Heartbreak Hill. Better yet, the bunch ahead of me seems to be tiring.
This is my chance, I tell myself. If I can bear down and beat them on the Hill, the race could be mine. What’s more, it would be the first time a Betazoid has won.
All along, I’ve refrained from plumbing the minds of my fellow runners. But as I slowly but surely close with the pack, I can’t resist a quick probe of the dark, leathery skinned Mikulak in front of me.
I expect her morale to be at rock bottom, considering she’s falling back farther with every stride. But the Mikulak isn’t demoralized. In fact, she’s almost buoyant.
Making my presence known to her telepathically, I ask her why she’s so happy. She glances over her shoulder at me and answers in the same wordless language. I have won, she tells me.
Do you really believe you’ll finish first? I ask her incredulously.
No, she replies. But I have won nevertheless. When we compete with our expectations of ourselves, many victories are possible.
I hadn’t looked at it that way before, but I see her point, I’m still pondering it a minute later as I pass her.
Unfortunately, she’s the only leader I manage to overtake. I get close to the others with the help of my last electrolyte cap, but they hold me off. Then we climb the long gray slope of Heartbreak Hill and my body begins to betray me. My legs cramp painfully and I feel light-headed, and I have no other capsules to keep me going.
There aren’t going to be any Jean-Luc Picards here today, I tell myself bitterly. The leaders gradually leave me in their dust. Before I reach the crest of the hill even the Mikulak has gone by me.
In the end, I stagger across the finish line in seventh place. But when I get there, stiff-legged as a newborn colt and feverishly dehydrated, I see the Mikulak waiting to greet me.
“Did you win?” she asks me. She sounds far away.
Did I? I think about it for a moment—think about what she told me earlier. By the time I reach a conclusion, my mouth is too dry to frame the words, so I answer her telepathically.
Yes, I tell her. I believe I did.
It surprises me that I feel that way, but I do. In fact, I reflect as I limp away with the Mikulak’s arm around me, I hope Jean-Luc Picard felt this good the day he won the Academy marathon.
BADLANDS
THE SPECTER OF JAMESTOWN
Hardened veterans of the Dominion War are uneasy with the specter of the “ghost town” confronting them. Built to rigid Starfleet specs, the domed settlement should have withstood anything except a direct assault. But while there is no evidence of any damage, neither is there any sign of life.
Prussura IV is a Class-M world, if only barely.
The vegetation around us is sparse—just a few scrawny, purple stalks and spiked brush plants growing out of cracks in the gray, rocky terrain. Outside our helmets, the air is thin and full of radioactive plasma particles; they whip about like deranged fireflies in a fierce, shrieking wind.
The sky is a pale, oxygen-poor orange this morning. It’ll be an even fiercer, wilder orange tonight. But then, that’s true of all the planets here in the Badlands—even the inhabitable ones.
Ten of us have beamed down to the planet’s surface. Commander Jusko, Lieutenant Montgomery, seven security officers, and me—a reporter for the Starfleet News Service. We’re all wearing white, Starfleet-issue containment suits and transparent helmets. Jusko and the others are carrying shiny, new phaser rifles.
Me? I’ve got a padd so I can take notes.
Originally, I was to have waited for the second wave b
efore beaming down from the U.S.S. Crockett. That’s the accepted practice, so people like me don’t get in the way of the fleet’s “tactical professionals.” Then we ran an orbital sensor scan and got the reading we’d been warned about.
No indications of sentient life.
The region of space known as the Badlands stretches for a span of nearly five light-years at the near edge of the Cardassian Union. It contains two young stars, seventeen planets, forty-three moons, and a rather sizable asteroid belt.
That’s not the surprising part. What’s baffled scientists throughout the Federation is that these bodies exist in a cosmic pressure-cooker, a fiery slice of hell alive with enormous, funnel-shaped plasma storms that confuse even the most finely tuned sensor systems and swallow starships as if they were plankton.
Few of the conditions that predictably give rise to suns and other celestial bodies prevail in the Badlands. And yet, the presence of suns and other bodies there is undeniable. One even finds life, as evidenced by the Class-M rating given to no less than three of the Badlands’ planets.
This has led to speculation that the region’s plasma storms are a relatively recent occurrence, one that may have begun to rear its ugly head as little as half a million years ago. But this theory begs other questions: Under what conditions did the storms originate? ls their sphere of influence spreading? And is it possible the Federations other systems will fall prey to the storms in time?
Of course, those who have used this region as a hiding place over the years couldn’t care less about the origin of the plasma storms. All that concerns them is that the Badlands keep the authorities at arm’s length—and in most cases, they do that wonderfully well.
Jusko cradles her rifle in one hand and points to something in the distance, her fingers looking thick and bulky in the suit’s gauntlets. I follow her gesture and see a large, research colony—style dome nestled among some crags. It’s maybe twenty meters high and fifty in diameter. Not by accident, it’s the same gray color as the rocks.
Star Trek: New Worlds, New Civilizations Page 6