Matthias must have noticed his discomfort because she quickly clarified her comments. “I spent five years doing field research in inter-species anthropology. Studying the body language patterns and brain stem physiological reactions of a number of Alpha Quadrant sentients. Most individuals fail to realize how much their unconscious reactions reveal about them.”
Being a man whose work it was to know what his customers wanted without asking, Quark appreciated her area of study. “Remarkable that you can know so much without reading my mind.”
“I didn’t say that,” she teased. “I have some Vulcan ancestry, but it’s a few generations back on my father’s side. Your secrets are safe, Quark.”
“Secrets? I have no secrets. My life is an open book.”
“True. Ferengi aren’t particularly complicated to decipher.”
“Not particularly complicated?” Quark felt like he’d just been insulted.
“No,” she said, unapologetically.
“So you can just look at whoever happens to walk into the room and after a relatively short observation figure who and what that person is about.”
“More or less. Some sentients are more obscure than others.”
“You don’t say?” Now that’s a talent a good businessman could learn to exploit.“What about him?” Quark asked, indicating Morn, who sat in his usual seat, nursing a tall mug of frothy ale. The Lurian turned toward Matthias and blinked blearily.
“He falls into the obscure category,” she said.
Impressed, Quark considered asking Commander Matthias if she could share a few tips that would enhance his already formidable skills in the fine art of behavioral profiling, but before he could open his mouth, in walked a Bajoran man with smooth pate and a thick, but neatly trimmed brown-black beard. Decently tailored clothes for an academic. Quark watched as the man cast a glance around the room, smiling when he spotted Matthias; he moved speedily to her side. The husband, I presume.
Their animated whispers held no interest for Quark. Before he could ask the husband if maybe he wanted a spin at the dabo wheel, Matthias pushed away her half-emptied soup bowl. Holding hands like newlyweds, Quark thought cynically, as they left the bar presumably to hear Prylar Kanton’s scintillating lecture on the wonders of B’hala.
Morn watched him, straight-faced.
“What are you looking at Mr. Obscure?” Quark snapped, sending his best customer scurrying off for cover behind the new dabo boy, guessing correctly that Quark’s glare wouldn’t find him there. Quark spent a good part of his day pretending he didn’t have a dabo boy.
“Table 6 wants the Dabo-Dom-Jot Special,” Treir said, sidling up beside him.
Quark also spent a good part of his day pondering those staff members most likely to exploit any weakness on the part of management. “We don’t have a Dabo-Dom-Jot Special,” he answered, waiting to see what angle Treir was coming from. She had to have one: she wouldn’t be Treir if she didn’t.
“I invented it after I realized that the gentleman at table 6 will cough up one bar of gold-pressed latinum for the Dabo-Dom-Jot special.” She indicated an assorted group of humans, smuggler or mercenary types, huddling in a corner of the bar.
Quark grinned. Holosuites going for five times their usual rates. Latinum for bogus package deals, and two gorgeous females sitting right in his eye line. Maybe things weren’t going so bad, even if he couldn’t understand a single word those females were saying! He composed himself. This was business, after all. “By all means, offer them the Special.”
“See, the thing is, if I become the Dabo part of the Dabo-Dom-Jot special, I want fifteen percent instead of my usual five percent,” she said, dropping seasoning tablets into half a dozen Black Holes.
Treir, there isn’t a tar pit big enough or dark enough to hold your evil mind.“No deal.” He wasn’t in the mood to take more punishment at female hands than he had to. He’d figure out his own bogus package deal and charge more.
“Fine. I’ll tell them to check out the Fifth Moon Casino on their way home to New Sydney. Their Dabo-Dom-Jot special is only 45 strips, anyway.”
“Ten percent,” he countered.
“I would have settled for eight, but thanks for the bonus.”
An incongruity in Treir’s tale occurred to him. “How could the Fifth Moon Casino charge 45 strips for their Dabo-Dom-Jot special if you invented it?”
Her white teeth shone against her jade complexion.
Whatever temporary stupidity was afflicting him had better go away in a hurry. He’d be giving every dabo girl vacation days before the night was out. And there was the legitimate possibility he was worrying about nothing. He needed intelligence, but he wasn’t about to waltz over there and talk to Natima and Ro directly. “Excuse me, ladies, somebody here mention my name?” What an idiot! If they weren’t laughing about him already, they’d certainly be laughing about him after that.
Quark needed a spy.
“Treir, you haven’t had a chance to see if table 5 needs their drinks refreshed. I happen to know the Cardassian ambassador has a fondness for Samarian Sunsets.”
“Translated: Have I heard any good gossip eavesdropping on your girlfriends?”
“You got your extra five percent. I’d say that’s worth something.”
Treir sighed. “Natima said something about someone never guessing that she was faking it because if she let things go any further, he’d find out that—”
Quark held up a hand to silence her. “I’ve heard enough, thanks. Go be the Dabo part of the Dabo-Dom-Jot special.”
“I need to change first,” she said. “Oh. And Councillor zh’Thane’s party is up next for the holosuites. You might want to send a ten-minute warning to the group in there now. Never know if they’re in a compromising position.” She sauntered into the backroom.
He mulled over Treir’s tidbit. His stomach tightened. He imagined every possible permutation of conversation that might lead to those comments from his former lover and the object of his present pursuit and he liked none of them. From the rear, the sounds of the cellar hatch slamming closed and storage clattering to the floor gave him one more reason to worry. What was Treir doing back there?
Treir emerged, a florescent pink hairpiece mounted on her head, a short spangled dress dangling beads and pearlized bells. The outfit had much in common with an exploding wedding dais.
“Um, Treir. About what you’re wearing…” Quark began.
“They were talking about the oddest place they’d ever hid a weapon, by the way,” she whispered in his ear as she pranced by.
In that moment, Quark had enough. Either that, or the whiskey had finally unbound his courage.
A Ferengi’s gotta do what a Ferengi’s gotta do, Quark recited in his mind, steeling himself to face Natima. The 100th Rule of Acquisition. He slid a tray off the rack, ordered up a couple of drinks and started off on what he hoped would appear to be a leisurely stroll across the floor.
“He’s coming,” Ro said, quietly. Because Lang’s chair only half faced the bar, Ro had kept Quark under surveillance. Once they’d transcended the usual swapping of histories and small talk, the status of their dealings with Quark had come up. Ro explained her still ambiguous intentions toward him; Lang related the story of their affair. Resolving that neither woman had any reason to compete with the other, they closed the book on Quark in just under five minutes by placing a small wager on how long he would be able to endure watching them from a distance before his curiosity—or anxiety—drove him to check on them.
“He lasted longer than I thought he would,” Lang said.
“You think he’s built up a good head of paranoia?”
“Probably. I’ll pay you after we settle up our bill.”
“That’s all right. Winning’s enough for me.”
“Ah! You enjoy the game more than the prize. I respect that.” Lang grinned, raised her glass of kanar and clinked a toast with Ro.
“Ladies,” Quark said, sliding the dri
nk tray onto their table. “Thought I’d bring over a little theme drink I’ve concocted for the reception. See if you think the diplomatic corps will approve. I call it a Peace Treaty. Starts off provocative, ends on a smooth note.”
“Thanks, Quark,” Ro said, taking a drink from the tray and passing it to Natima before taking one for herself. Ro choked, barely avoiding spitting up. “A bit heavy on the syrup.”
Thoughtfully, Natima palmed the glass, swirling the liquid around and delicately smacked her lips as if to contemplate the drink’s overtones. “The sweet juxtaposes the fire of the whiskey nicely.”
“Sounds like the dealings between your governments could take awhile, eh, ladies?” Quark said, bussing empty appetizer dishes onto the drink tray. “Consensus can be hard to come by.”
“No, I think we’ve found consensus on many things,” Natima said, her sparkling eyes searching out Ro’s.
Taking her cue, Ro nodded in agreement. “Absolutely. I think Bajorans and Cardassians can find a lot of common ground.”
“Oh. I suppose that’s positive,” Quark said, glancing between the women. “So…”
“So…” Natima echoed.
He stood in front of the table, tapping his foot, waiting, and clearly hoping that one of his guests would say something. Ro felt no obligation to rescue Quark. His seeming inability to string together a snappy comeback was a rare enough occurrence to be novel to her. She contented herself with surveying the crowd; playing security chief for a minute or two couldn’t hurt anything. Besides, if anything was going to get out of hand tonight, she’d like advance notice. A large cluster of off-duty Starfleet personnel moved aside, giving her full view of Councillor zh’Thane accompanied by Shar’s bondmates. Now was as good a time as any to update zh’Thane’s party regarding her special request.
And let poor Quark off the hook.
“Quark, why don’t you have a seat? I have an early shift and some business to take care of,” Ro said, rising. “And put all this on my tab, would you? Ambassador, it’s been a delight.”
Lang raised her glass again as Ro stood up. “The pleasure was mine, Lieutenant.”
“We still have our evening together, Laren?” Quark said, a bit too loudly.
Lang covered her mouth with her hand, but not before a guffaw escaped.
Ro sighed. “Once everyone’s adjusted to the new security protocols and the reception is over, I’ll be able to make definite plans,” Ro explained, “But I think I’ll be ready to put in a holosuite reservation soon.” She gave Natima a little wink and headed off to meet with zh’Thane.
“Lieutenant Ro and I are exploring the possibility of a social relationship,” Quark said after she’d left.
“She mentioned that you two got along pretty well,” Natima said.
He watched Ro cross over to where the Andorian party—all four of them—waited for their holosuite. He’d heard rumors about some of the unique quirks of Andorian biology and was—intrigued?—by the commercial possibilities. “Hmmm. Now there’s a holoprogram I’m certain would be a big hit: ‘Andorian Ecstasy: Good Things Come In Fours.’ Never occurred to me before now, but it might have more wide-scale appeal than just for Andorians. Few people know about Andorians and how they, you know.” He grinned luridly. “Very hush-hush.”
Natima rolled her eyes. “And is it possible that they tend to be a private people precisely to avoid having their intimate relationships exploited by entrepreneurial Ferengi?”
“All sentients are motivated by the need to eat and the need to reproduce. It’s variety in both that keeps life interesting.”
“So you see yourself as the host at a buffet table of exotic delights of all shapes and sizes?”
“Precisely.”
“Quark, as much as the universe changes, you always somehow manage to stay the same.” Natima shook her head.
Quark stopped smiling and found himself staring deeply into her eyes. “Another thing that hasn’t changed is how much you mean to me, Natima.” Quark reached over, placing his hand over hers. “Every bit of news out of Cardassia, every report, I looked for your face—your name—hoping you were safe.”
“I have to confess even with everything that’s happened to my people in recent years, my thoughts have often traveled back here, because I was worried about you, too. I had a feeling you’d make it.”
“Takes more than a few wars to kill me off.”
“I believe that.”
Quark sighed. “I’m happy you’re here, Natima.”
She smiled, and placed her hand over his. “Me, too.”
Other than when she’d first admitted them to Shar’s quarters, Ro had never seen his bondmates all together. A pair might go shopping on the Promenade; from time to time she’d pass by one in the Habitat Ring, or while crossing over the various bridges to different levels of the station, but never in a group. She suspected they avoided it deliberately. Wherever they went people would talk simply because, to a person, they were striking.
The one sitting next to zh’Thane had an angular handsomeness he emphasized by wearing his hair pulled back tightly from his face. His choice of clothes—a shirt in a vivid hue of teal coupled with an ornately embroidered vest—reflected fashion sensibility Quark would appreciate. In the middle sat the bondmate Ro had met one day in the Replimat—a talkative, friendly individual, especially compared to Shar, who said little unless he was spoken to. Having explained that she was a teacher, she’d inquired about sitting in and observing the station’s classrooms and Ro had forgotten she’d promised to get back to her. Ro made a mental note to add that to her task list for the morning. If she had to guess, she’d pick the Andorian who sat, just a bit a part from the other two, as the “problem” zh’Thane had come to see her about.
Unlike the congenial stockiness of the chatty one who sat beside her, she had a lean, willowy look, emphasized by her choice to wear her long white hair straight and smooth. She must have sensed Ro’s scrutiny because suddenly Ro found herself facing a pair of piercing gray eyes.
“Lieutenant?” she said, her voice silvery toned.
“Umm. Yeah.” Ro grabbed an empty chair from a close-by table, placed it in front of the Andorians’ booth, threw a leg over and straddled it. “Yes. I apologize for interrupting your night out, but I’ve got good news regarding your trip.”
Her eyes narrowing on Ro, the willowy one said, “Trip? What trip?”
“Thriss,” zh’Thane warned.
Puzzled glances passed between the other two bondmates and Ro wondered if zh’Thane had told them about her request for an exemption. Maybe this was a mistake and I should have handled this one-on-one with the councillor.
Zh’Thane must have noticed their apprehension because she quickly said, “Remember we talked yesterday about the timetable for your return to Andor? I’m anxious to hear what you’ve learned, Lieutenant.”
Warily, Thriss watched Ro, her expression flinty.
Ignoring Thriss, Ro took her cue from the senior member of the group and proceeded. “Colonel Kira paged me a short time ago with her approval for your emergency departure exemption. Everything checks out—your ship, Councillor, will be free to leave the station on an ‘as needed’ basis.”
Confusion erupted.
“Dizhei, you discussed this with Zhadi?” one of the Andorians said, anxious. “I thought we’d decided to keep it to ourselves—”
“I thought after what happened this morning—”
“—believed you and Anichent were in agreement—”
Shathrissía kept silent, her eyes solemn. Ro saw her hands curl around the edge of the table, her breathing deepen.
“We can’t risk—”
“—room for last-minute—”
“Wait!” Ro said, bringing her palm down on the table, a little harder than she intended. At the sound, four pairs of eyes fixed on her.
“No one said you had specific plans. Your situation isn’t much different, except now you have the option of leaving
on short notice without having to go through all the procedures required by a yellow-alert status.” She turned to zh’Thane. “I have the codes at my office. I’ll have them sent to your quarters, Councillor. Provide them to ops and you’ll be allowed to depart without question.”
“So you all conspired to return to Andor without talking to me about it,” Thriss said softly. “When was this decided? You and Anichent have a little pillow talk, Dizhei? Or was it your idea, Zhadi? Trying to control us, as usual.” Thriss jerked around to face zh’Thane, tipping over a mug filled with Orion ale; liquid drenched the table.
Flustered, Dizhei jumped up. Thriss sat fixed, unbending, ignoring the disturbance she’d caused.
“We hadn’t decided anything without discussing it with you, Shathrissía,” Anichent said. He draped an arm around her shoulder and hugged her reassuringly. “We had to make sure the proposal was feasible. All is well, zh’yi.”
“I am not some addle-minded child you can lie to,” she snarled. Prying his arm from around her shoulder, Thriss scooted away from her bondmate. He caressed her cheek; she slapped his hand away. “Don’t. Touch. Me.”
Uh-oh. Looks like we might have a situation here, Ro thought. She needed to turn down the heat before it became a meltdown. “How about we take this to the holosuite? You can talk privately, work through—”
“What’s this ‘we’? And why are you still here?” Thriss turned on Ro, eyes blazing. “Oh I see. You’re one of zhadi’s lackeys doing her dirty work.”
“Watch your impertinence in public,” zh’Thane warned.
Ro shot zh’Thane a look, discouraging her from speaking further, and addressed Thriss and her bondmates. “As station security chief, I answer to Colonel Kira, not Councillor zh’Thane and certainly not you. When I suggested you take this to the holosuite, that was a polite way of asking you to resolve your disagreement elsewhere,” Ro said evenly. “If you intend to use your holosuite time, I suggest you do it now. Otherwise, there’s the door.” Pushing her chair back from the group, Ro made it halfway to Quark and Natima’s table when the sound of shattering glass caught her attention. She spun around in time to see Thriss brandishing half a broken drinking glass, the razor sharp edges within centimeters of Anichent’s face. Ro started back toward the Andorians at a brisk clip. Dammit!
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