I, the Constable

by Paula M. Block

  He paused. Yrena was studying him thoughtfully, perhaps balancing the scales on whether it made more sense to kill him or keep him alive. So he kept talking. “You know, Yrena, once your intentions become public knowledge, every commercial investor on Ferenginar will be knocking on your door. And while I suspect you won’t want to admit outside partners, with all of that attention, the FCA will have no choice but to offer you a spot on the floor of the Exchange. Think of that!

  “But that’s only if this whole project is properly handled. You’ll get a lot of buzz, but will it be the right kind of buzz? You’ll need someone to help you with that.”

  “And who would that someone be?” she asked, although they both knew the answer.

  “Well, I don’t want to brag, but I know I can provide the tools to guarantee your project will be the most talked about on the planet. And talked about the right way. With respect.”

  Yrena’s eyes narrowed. “And how,” she asked, “would you do that?”

  “I’m sure you’ll agree that it would be far easier for me to show you than to tell you,” Quark said, his confidence growing. “In fact, being in this position”—and he balanced himself so that he could lift his bound ankles off the floor—“doesn’t really inspire cooperation. Now, if you would like to untie me so I can collaborate with you, perhaps for a minority stake, I already see ways of reducing your start-up costs that will get the entire project off the ground sooner than you’ve anticipated.”

  Yrena paced around the room. Her brutal sons frowned when she looked at them. They clearly didn’t think keeping Quark alive was a good idea. But they also knew better than to offer unsolicited opinions.

  At last the person who had been Frin’s second wife stopped pacing—right in front of Quark. “I have to admit,” she said, “over the years I’ve heard good things about your financial finesse. Frin once mentioned that he’d ‘borrowed’ one of your investment techniques—I believe he called it your ‘modus operandi’—during a negotiation.”

  “He did?” said Quark, wondering if he should have received a royalty on that deal, whichever deal it had been. Then he quickly refocused on the matter at hand. “Oh—yes, of course. It’s good to hear he valued my advice.”

  “Perhaps I might allow you to hold a company position—a minor one, of course—if you can provide some suggestions that prove to have merit.”

  “Works for me,” Quark said quickly. And he thrust out his bound hands.

  “Release your . . . cousin,” Yrena said, looking at Rascoe.

  Holding his breath, Quark watched as Rascoe pulled his knife from his belt, leaned forward, and with two quick slashes, freed his hands and feet.

  “Thank you,” Quark said, almost meaning it. Rubbing his wrists in an attempt to get the vital fluids back into circulation, he said, “I’ll start going over your plans in detail as soon as I get some rest back at—”

  “I have a better idea,” Yrena said. “You need to have a look at Bowog. Come along.” She reached down to offer Quark a hand as he stood. “Rascoe and I will give you a tour of the construction site. You’ll see the progress that we’ve already made, and then we’ll put together some ideas!”

  “You mean that you’ve started construction without the proper permits,” Quark said. “That’s not . . .”

  The big toothy grin she flashed at Quark gave him pause—and made him wonder whether he’d been freed, or gotten entangled in even stronger bindings.

  Yrena watched Rascoe lead Quark down the stairs. When they had passed out of earshot, she turned to Bakke—and smacked him on the head.

  “Who told you to kill the bartender?” she hissed. “He was the only employee who could mix a perfect Samarian Sunset!”

  “Stop!” Bakke whined as he attempted to cover his head with his arms. “He had to go. He knew too much. When that nosy smooth-face started grilling him, I figured we might be in trouble.”

  “Well, what’s done is done,” Yrena grumbled. “But you left a loose thread. Go back and search the taverns for that smooth-face. He’s the last odd piece that we need to get rid of.”

  “What about the nagus’s brother?” responded Bakke, taking her arm and leading her toward the stairs.

  “We’ll accept whatever financial know-how Quark has to offer. And when that resource dries up, you’ll dispose of him. Just the way you disposed of Hilt and the bartender.”

  “And the way you put Frin on the express tram to meet the Celestial Auctioneers,” Bakke added with a smirk.

  Yrena smacked Bakke on the head. Again. “Shut up about that! It was a natural death, got it?”

  Bakke rubbed his head. “Whatever you say, Mother.”

  The pair walked down the stairs and Bakke helped Yrena get seated in the family shuttle near Rascoe and Quark. As the vehicle lifted off on a heading toward Bowog Bog, Bakke climbed into a small, personal shuttle, fired up the engine, and set course for the city center.

  Chapter 16

  “Odo. Odo, are you here?” Rom whispered softly.

  On a typical day, as most Ferengi likely would concur, the grand nagus is a highly conspicuous figure. He is, after all, the most important person in the entire Ferengi Alliance. His craggy face appears everywhere: on the planet’s blaring public media monitors; in the digital tabloids; on the commemorative gold-pressed strips of latinum available for a special inflated price in the Tower of Commerce gift shop. As such, his visage is instantly familiar to everyone on the planet, even tiny schoolchildren.

  On an untypical day, with his face partly hidden by the upturned collar of an oversized cloak, and his conspicuous scepter of office left at home, the nagus still is recognizable.

  Which is why his presence outside Frin’s Fabulous Fortune was making the tavern’s junior valet very nervous.

  “What is the nagus doing out there?” Smoog asked his boss, Arno, the door captain.

  Arno glanced at the figure standing just outside the portico. “He seems to be looking for someone,” he responded. “Or something.”

  “Well, should I . . . I don’t know . . . ask him if he needs assistance?” Smoog said worriedly.

  Arno shook his head. “He’s the nagus. Show him some respect. If he wants to pretend to be an anonymous man on the street, who are we to point out that he isn’t?”

  Deliberately keeping their backs to the cloaked figure, the two disappeared into the tavern.

  Oblivious to this discussion, Rom continued to study the entrance. He scrutinized a lamppost. It was tall. And thin. Like the shape-shifter. “Odo?” he whispered to it. “Is that you?”

  He was sure—well, pretty sure—that this was the tavern Odo had mentioned earlier, the one he said he planned to “stake out.” But so far, Rom had seen no sign of him.

  The lamppost, being a lamppost, gave no reply.

  Rom turned and casually paced along the outer curve of the portico. “Odo, are you here?” he murmured softly as a muscular Gorn walked past him.

  The Gorn paused and gave Rom a suspicious look. “Whaat did you call meee?” it hissed.

  Rom gulped nervously. “Um, I said, ‘Odo!’ It’s a friendly greeting here.”

  The Gorn’s faceted eyes were fixed on the Ferengi. “I do not wissssshh to be your friennnd,” it said. Then it turned and walked away.

  Rom shuddered and moved a little closer to the door of the tavern. He was beginning to wonder if he should go inside. It might be safer. Of course, it also meant there was a greater chance that he’d be recognized.

  As he debated the decision internally, he failed to notice that the carvings on the underside of the portico’s ceiling were shifting and then melting into a viscous gold liquid that flowed down a pillar. Directly behind the nagus, the liquid coalesced into a nondescript lump, and then a taller lump, and then finally stretched into a humanoid form.

  “Why are you looking for me?�
�� the form asked.

  Rom spun around in terror, his open mouth wide as he prepared to scream—but the scream died in his throat when he realized that he was looking at Odo. His body sagged in relief.

  “Why are you here?” the shape-shifter queried, his irritation evident. “I told you—if I’m going to find your brother, I have to operate undercover. I have to be anonymous.”

  “I know,” Rom replied. “But I can be anonymous too.” From within the folds of his cloak, the nagus withdrew a very large hat, its billowy dome and oversized brim clearly intended to hide his all-too-famous face. Rom pulled it on, unaware that the outlandish chapeau made him look even more conspicuous than before. “Nobody will recognize me in this!”

  “I see,” Odo replied. “Good plan, Rom, wearing the most attention-grabbing garment in the quadrant as a disguise.”

  The nagus appeared confused. “But—”

  “You don’t seem to realize that it’s impossible for the nagus to operate undercover. Everyone in the Alliance knows you.”

  As if to prove Odo’s point, a pair of Ferengi businessmen chose that moment to exit the tavern. They seemed slightly inebriated, but that didn’t stop them from recognizing Rom—hat and all. “Sharp hat, Nagus,” shouted one of them, while the other waved.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter, Odo!” Rom said. “Don’t you understand? I need to help! He’s my brother! I’d never forgive myself if—”

  Suddenly a bolt of energy zinged past them, disintegrating the nearby statue of a long-dead Ferengi financial hero. Responding instantly, Odo wrapped himself around Rom and leaped behind a pillar, carrying the Ferengi to safety with him.

  Separating himself from the nagus, the shape-shifter scanned the area, trying to discern the point from which the disruptor blast had originated. Rom’s dazed eyes were fixed on the blasted statue. “That . . . that was Gubbin,” he mumbled, staring at the rubble. “When I was in school, he was said to be the wealthiest—”

  But Odo wasn’t listening. He had spotted a small Ferengi shuttlecraft hovering just past the corner of the building. Confirming his suspicions, a second bolt of blue energy erupted from inside the shuttle.

  This time the shape-shifter was prepared, and he quickly formed a large hole in the center of his body. The shooter’s aim was accurate, but so was his target’s instinct. The bolt passed harmlessly through the opening, only to pulverize a second statue.

  Then the shooter seemed to lose his taste for target practice. Curving toward the horizon, the shuttle sped away.

  Odo glanced down at Rom. “Are you all right?” he asked. Rom didn’t answer. He was staring at the second pile of rubble. But he didn’t seem injured, so Odo turned to leave. “I’m going to assume that’s my suspect,” he said. “Contact Quirk. Tell him I’ll get in touch with him when I find out where that shuttle is going.”

  Rom pointed at the second pile of rubble. “Th-that was Mezzo. He was . . .” He turned to look at Odo, but the Changeling wasn’t there. All Rom saw was a Tarkalean condor, rapidly disappearing into the stormy distance.

  Chapter 17

  It looks really cold down there.

  I don’t like cold. Nobody likes cold. What in Gint’s name is she thinking?

  Quark suppressed a shiver as he studied the bleak landscape of Upper Bowog Bay through a viewport on Yrena’s shuttlecraft. He wasn’t impressed with his first glimpse of the region.

  It’s not exactly a vacation hot spot.

  In fact, nothing about it was hot. Located on one of Ferenginar’s northern continents, most Ferengi considered the climate in Upper Bowog Bay to be completely inhospitable. Even the precipitation was unpleasant, consisting mainly of graupel that fell in hard, sleety, nasty globs, as opposed to the more tolerable showers of Ferenginar’s southern regions.

  Quark knew only two things about Upper Bowog Bay:

  1. It was—or rather had been—the site of the infamous Bowog Dam, which mysteriously failed just days after its warranty expired.

  2. It was the birthplace of Sluggo and Vorp, the renowned creators of Eelwasser, one of the most popular beverages on Ferenginar. The massive Eelwasser bottling facility was also situated in the region, conveniently located next to what Sluggo and Vorp had referred to as “The Source”: Bowog Bog’s myriad pools of fetid standing water, delicately flavored with the essence of native Bowogian eel.

  Only a fool would invest in this region. Or a crazy person.

  He cast a furtive glance at Yrena, who was sitting up front with her son Rascoe.

  Definitely the latter, he thought. She actually thinks that when she completes her project, Reni’s Latinum Lyceum will be considered the place on Ferenginar to gamble/drink/indulge in all forms of carnal pleasure/vacation with the kids/hear great music/eat to excess . . . And More!

  Climate aside, considering the astronomical expense involved in building a gigantic casino complex (from scratch!), Quark seriously doubted that anyone could pull off such a miracle, particularly not a fe-male.

  But then he saw the construction site, and his jaw dropped in surprise. She did start without the permits! There’s a huge fine for that!

  Of course, that was only if they found out. And what inspector would come all the way up here to check?

  Directly beneath the shuttle he could see the footprint of the site, a shallow rectangular pit carved out of the region’s distinctive gray-green tundra. Scattered across one end of the excavation stood dozens of parked ground conveyers, deactivated digging machines, and pile after pile of building materials.

  In the center of the site, Quark spotted the foundation of a building. From its central position, Quark judged it to be a future hotel. Just beyond that was a long, unfinished structure, perhaps a gaming pavilion, at least in Quark’s mind. The size was impressive. Quark imagined it would accommodate thousands of customers—not to mention all of their latinum.

  The only thing that looked close to completion was a dome, gigantic and gorgeously gilded, rising from the earth like a particularly rare and succulent mushroom.

  Is that an entertainment rotunda? Quark wondered, his pulse racing. I think it is! And I have to admit, it looks fabulous!

  In the distance, he could see uncounted acres that had been cleared, presumably for shuttle and skimmer parking. Quark wondered if Yrena had plans for a transporter station. If it were his complex, he certainly would.

  You could beam directly from the Tower of Commerce or a ship in orbit—and no need to even set a toe in the graupel. Perfect!

  The shuttle gently landed near the dome, and Yrena rose from her seat. She approached Quark with a smug smile on her face. “So? What do you think now?”

  “Well,” Quark said, releasing his safety belt, “it looks very . . . uh, interesting.”

  “ ‘Interesting’?!” She burst out laughing, that same sharp barking sound that he’d heard in the tower. Truth be told, it made him a little nervous. “Is that all you have to say?”

  Quark shrugged. “Okay, okay, I’ll admit it. It’s impressive. So far. But it’s a long way from finished, and there are lots of areas you don’t seem to have touched.”

  “Do tell,” said Yrena.

  Quark often was short of latinum, but never was short of ideas on how to acquire it. As he began rattling off just a few of the most obvious ones, Yrena suddenly held up one hand and reached into her voluminous flight bag with the other. “Here!” she said, shoving a padd into her nephew’s hands. “Start putting it down. Let your imagination run wild!”

  Quark glanced at the padd and noted immediately that the device’s communication function had been disabled. He could write on it, design on it, create complex calculations on it—but he couldn’t contact anyone with it, nor could he receive messages. In other words, it wouldn’t help to get him out of the fix he was in, but it might keep him alive a little longer.

  “Okay
,” he said. “But, uh, what if I wind up contradicting some of your plans? I wouldn’t want to upset you . . .”

  “So contradict me,” she said, leading him out of the shuttle. “Who am I—Gint? No. I’m just a businesswoman who wants to have the best super casino in the quadrant. And I know your reputation, Quark—that’s what you want too, isn’t it? Except you never had the resources to do it. Well,” she said, gesturing at their surroundings, “now you do, partner! Where do you want to start your tour?”

  Quark looked around the complex, then quickly pointed at the rotunda. “How about there?” he said, unable to keep a little tremor of excitement out of his voice.

  “How about there!” Yrena repeated cheerfully, threading her arm through his. “Let’s go!”

  And they headed toward the giant mushroom.

  Chapter 18

  Bakke squealed in frustration and turned his shuttle toward Upper Bowog Bay.

  It didn’t make sense! He’d fired his disruptor at the alien twice. Twice! And he hadn’t hit him either time! Okay, maybe he’d been overconfident with that first shot. The guy had been a sitting cephalopod! Or a standing one, anyway. But his second try had been dead-on—dead-on!—and yet, impossibly, the blast had curved around him. At least, he assumed it had curved around him. If it had gone through him—which was how it looked—he’d be an ex-pain-in-the-patook, right?

  As he sped over Ferenginar’s rustic uplands, he attempted again and again to contact his mother and brother, to no avail. Their lack of response could be due to any number of natural phenomena, like solar flares, or an onslaught of ravenous polar toads. But the likeliest (and most aggravating) explanation was that they’d gone inside the nearly completed entertainment dome, which was specially shielded to prevent unmonitored communications from coming in or going out. Bakke had argued against installing security shielding at the facility; it seemed an unnecessary expense. But Yrena had insisted. “Our clientele will appreciate the extra sense of entitlement it will provide,” she’d pointed out. “There’s no practical reason to let the outside world—or the FCA—listen in on private transactions.”