He gasped. That . . . that’s not water. It’s latinum! Liquid latinum. The river was filled with it, an amber-toned liquid, thick as molasses, the most valuable commodity on all of Ferenginar. He stared, awestruck, as raindrops bounced off the surface of the viscous liquid and flowed to the side, unable to penetrate and dilute the stream.
Quark took a step forward, watching the glimmering liquid ooze slowly over a rocky bed. A sensual shudder ran through him. Incredible. Incredible! He knew it was holosuite latinum, a mere illusion, yet he felt an irrational desire to step into it, to fall into it, to douse himself with it, to drink and swim and flail in it.
He was overwhelmingly aroused. This indescribably beautiful river of latinum flowed in front of him, more enticing than any female.
Or so he thought.
“Hello, Shmun,” came a female voice, stopping Quark in his tracks. The voice was familiar. He’d heard it before in this very room. “When we last met, you told me I should seek my own fortune. What do you think of my outcome?”
Quark turned to see a Vulcan woman wearing the vestments of a high priestess: a flowing red robe with a cream-colored tabard and hood. The garments were heavy with rain but did not seem to encumber her. He gasped. Over the years, he’d grown used to seeing clothed females on the station. If he hadn’t, he’d never have been able to wait on them. But this—this—affected him in a primal way. The rain-sodden clothing clung to the Vulcan’s curves like a clutch of hungry gree-worms, inflaming his aching lobes! And he recognized this angel!
“T’lana!” he gasped.
Here she was, the insatiable Vulcan Love Slave he’d salivated over since he’d been a mere adolescent and read about her in the story written (probably) by Iskel the Unimpressed. And she looked just as she had in the three best-selling holosuite programs inspired by that now classic novel. Except . . . somehow . . . better. Quark couldn’t tell if this was because she was standing before him in the flesh—so to speak—or if he was seeing the work of a much more talented programmer than the one who’d created those earlier installments. Oh, he’d enjoyed Vulcan Love Slave II: The Revenge and Vulcan Love Slave III: Shmun’s New Hope—but neither of them had affected him this way. Her sallow flesh and the satiny lines of that river were irresistible! Quark felt his lobes lift. T’lana and a river of latinum. What could be better?
Pull yourself together, he thought as he attempted to gather his senses. He glanced down, noting that the computer had changed his clothing; he was now garbed in rustic woodland attire more suitable to the surroundings. Oh, that’s right! I play this as Shmun. He cleared his throat. “I was just about to enjoy a closer look at the river,” he said, sounding foolish even to himself.
“Why don’t we bring a bit of the river to you instead?” T’lana said, those sweet Vulcan lips as succulent as tube grub larvae, curving upward in a tantalizing smile.
We?
As if on cue, two similarly clad females, an Andorian and an Orion, stepped from behind the trees. They walked directly to Quark and laid their hands on his shoulders, lowering him onto a lounge formed from the fungi on the forest floor. They knelt at either side of him, blue fingers gently but firmly on his left lobe, green fingers clutching his right, lightly—but effectively—restraining him. But then, why would he want to go elsewhere at a moment like this? Quark sighed. “I’m pluff mud in your hands, ladies.” Now T’lana stepped over him, straddling his knees with her long, slender legs. She reached down, loosening the bodice of Shmun’s leather jerkin, exposing Quark’s hairless chest.
“Oh, my,” whispered Quark as the frippering droplets flowed onto his overheated skin.
With a wicked smile, T’lana raised a brick of gold-pressed latinum high over Quark’s near prostrate form. Her two friends gently tightened their grip on his lobes, triggering flashes of pleasure throughout his body. Then T’lana pulled a tiny plug from the end of the brick. As she tilted the brick, a rivulet of latinum appeared, a shiny pearl at first, then a slow flow, barely fluid, elongating, undulating, a stretching, molten currency creeping closer and closer at an agonizing pace, inching toward his chest. Quark allowed himself to become one with the rain, the fingers, T’lana’s knees leaning along his ribs, his eyes riveted on the latinum as it flowed, closer, almost touching him, almost about to envelop him. Hyperventilating, Quark wondered if he would pass out in anticipation before the liquid reached . . .
Suddenly, without warning, the Ferengi found himself lying on the cold, hard floor of a black room encircled by a grid of green lines. The latinum, the females, the fungi, and the forest had disappeared.
“No!” he shrieked. “Computer! Computer! Resume program!”
“Unable to comply. The program is complete.”
“What? It can’t be. Check again.”
“The program is complete.”
Quark closed his eyes in an attempt to bring back the memory of what he’d been feeling only a moment before. But it wasn’t the same.
All he could feel was agony.
3
Quark stumbled from the holosuite, his hormone-saturated brain so distracted by what he’d just experienced—and hadn’t experienced—that he forgot he’d already turned the lights down in the bar. And that he should take the steps one at a time. The station’s artificial gravity, on the other hand, knew exactly what to do, and the Ferengi suddenly found himself fumbling, flying, falling, screaming for his life as his hands windmilled about, searching for something to postpone the inevitable collision with the main floor. He managed to latch on to the railing halfway through his descent; momentum, however, kept him moving, his sweaty hand slip-sliding down the rail as his rump hit most of the stairs. Eventually he found himself sprawled over the bottom steps, bruised, battered, and possibly sprained. Taking a moment to allow his heartbeat to slow from triple time to something closer to normal, he struggled to his feet and staggered to his private office.
I should have known, he fumed as he dropped into the chair behind his desk. We didn’t settle on terms. Of course she wouldn’t trust me with more than a taste of the goods. I’ve got to lock this in.
Activating his communications console, Quark ordered, “Computer, connect me with Captain Rionoj.”
Without even a millisecond’s pause, the computer responded, “Captain Rionoj is not on the station.”
Quark drummed his fingers impatiently. “Of course she’s on the station. Computer, ignore any ‘Do not disturb’ protocol she may have set. I don’t care if she’s getting her beauty sleep. This is an emergency. Wake her up.”
“Captain Rionoj is not on the station.”
“What are you talking about?” Quark questioned, his voice growing shrill. “Where is she?”
“Insufficient data,” the female voice responded. “Please restate the question.”
She’s probably sleeping on her ship. Sure, that’s it. “Computer, patch me through to the Furyk.”
“The Boslic freighter Furyk has departed from the station.”
Quark’s jaw dropped. “She . . . she left? Why would she—” He cut himself off and posed a question the computer would be more likely to answer. “Computer, did Captain Rionoj file a flight plan when her ship left the station?”
“Flight plans are not accessible by civilians. Please contact station personnel for further assistance.”
“I am station personnel! I am the Ferengi ambassador!” he spat.
“Flight plans are not accessible by the Ferengi ambassador.”
Quark cursed. The computer, unfamiliar with the terminology, had the good sense not to respond.
Get ahold of yourself, man. Think this through. He took a deep breath and gathered his wits. When he next spoke, his voice was calm, measured. “Computer, is Captain Ro on duty?”
“Affirmative. Captain Ro is on duty.”
“Could you ple
ase inform Captain Ro that the Ferengi ambassador has a matter of dire urgency that he needs to discuss with her?”
There was a pause, and then Ro’s no-nonsense voice addressed him from the companel. “What is it, Quark?”
No image. That meant she didn’t have time or inclination for chitchat. “I need a favor. A very small favor,” he added quickly.
“I’ve heard that before. What is it?”
“Did the Furyk file a flight plan? I have some unfinished business with the captain.”
“I’ll bet,” said Ro. “Let’s see. Your Captain Rionoj indicated that she was en route to—hmm, interesting—the Gavara system.”
“Gavara? But . . . but that’s in the Gamma Quadrant.” Before he allowed panic to set in, Quark reminded himself that the Boslic had never filed an accurate flight plan in all the years he’d known her. I need more information, he thought. “Did she enter the wormhole?”
“Nope. The wormhole hasn’t opened since the freighter left the station.”
Quark wondered if he ought to push his luck. His relationship with Ro at the moment wasn’t bad—but it wasn’t exactly good either. I need to work on that . . . when I’m not trying to salvage my financial future. “Umm, and when exactly was that?”
Ro sighed. “About an hour ago. You should still be able to catch her on subspace—assuming you know her frequency.”
He did, but it didn’t mean Rionoj was immediately inclined to answer. After what seemed an eternity, the Boslic responded to his frantic hails. “Quark, what a nice surprise,” she said, her lovely features filling the small screen on his panel. “I’m sorry. I was . . . unexpectedly called away. Pressing business,” she said with an apologetic shrug. “Did you enjoy the product?”
“What little of it there was seemed . . . satisfactory,” he responded in a carefully neutral tone. “I’m willing to discuss acquiring the rest of it.”
“Unfortunately, we’ll have to postpone our negotiation until I return.”
“We could do it right now,” the Ferengi said, a little too eagerly. “I mean, as long as we’re in contact anyway. Then you could simply forward the material. You’re still close enough to—”
“That won’t be possible,” she interrupted, and then, with a sly tilt of her head, she added, “But I’m so happy to hear that you’re interested. Oh, by the way, that price I quoted? That was yesterday’s price. It may be a bit more by the time I get back.”
“Yesterday’s—what?” Quark sputtered. But the Boslic captain’s face had disappeared from the monitor. The channel was closed.
Quark uttered a louder, far more profound curse.
4
Some engineers found squeezing into the matter-assembly field manipulator in the cargo bay’s industrial replicator intimidating, even claustrophobic. Not so DS9’s assistant chief engineer. Nog had tried, futilely, to explain to Jan Collins, one of the female engineers on Beta Shift, that he found DS9’s confined spaces “homey.” This revelation had earned Nog a peculiar look from Jan, but he’d shrugged it off. He’d learned from his longtime friendship with Jake Sisko that he couldn’t expect everyone to share his point of view. Nog had grown up on the old space station, exploring every nook and cranny he was cleared for access to (and many that he wasn’t but managed to find his way into anyway). Now, as authorized station personnel, his compact Ferengi physique made him the perfect candidate for assignments that required finesse in tight places. With his trusty tool kit and all the isolinear components within arm’s reach, he often felt like the master of his own tiny universe.
Except for the occasional interruption.
Like right now. Dissonant rumbling came from outside the replicator—voices, he realized by the rise and fall in pitch—but he tried to ignore the noise. Chief O’Brien was out there fine-tuning the matrix-beam emitter, and Nog knew that if something required his participation, O’Brien would alert him via his combadge. Nevertheless, after a while, his keen ears began to pick out sound patterns that translated into words.
“. . . Just need to talk to him . . .”
“. . . forget it . . . on duty . . . can wait till . . .”
“. . . urgent embassy business!”
Nog rolled his eyes and continued his calibrations. I’m not going out there. I’m not falling for that “urgent embassy business” schlarval. He’s probably in trouble with Commander Blackmer again—
Then he heard his combadge beep, followed by the strained voice of the station’s chief engineer. “Nog, get out here.”
He winced, not for the first time wishing that his uncle had remained on Bajor. Gathering up his tools, Nog extricated himself from the innards of the machine and got to his feet, idly rubbing the hip that connected to his artificial leg. He smiled tentatively at O’Brien. “Almost done in there, Chief.”
O’Brien was flushed, his fleshy features puckered with irritation. “Get rid of him, Nog,” he said, jerking a thumb at the Ferengi ambassador. “Five minutes.”
“Aye.” Nog turned to Quark. “Let’s step over here, Uncle,” he said, moving toward the other side of the bay.
He was about to launch into the usual litany about leaving him alone while he was on duty when Quark waved an isolinear chip in his face. “I need to know who made this!” the barkeep said. “It could represent the salvation of the Ferengi race!”
Nog eyed the chip dubiously. “The entire race?”
Quark smiled nervously. “Okay, well, maybe just me. But I do represent the entire Ferengi race in this region of space.”
Nog shook his head in disapproval and took the chip. “What is it that couldn’t wait three hours till I finished my shift?”
Quark’s eyes glinted with avarice. “It’s the most amazing program in the quadrant,” he blurted out. He quickly looked around to make sure no one could overhear their conversation, relieved that O’Brien—the only other occupant of the large room—was preoccupied with the replicator’s emitter. “It’s a new sequel to Vulcan Love Slave,” he confided. “Well, just a piece of it. A very tantalizing piece of it. I want to find a copy of the whole thing.”
Nog turned the chip over in his palm. “Well, who’d you get this piece from?”
“A conniving temptress who I’m pretty sure is out looking for a better deal.”
Nog grinned. “Oh, Rionoj is back?”
Quark waved his hand in the air, dismissing that part of the conversation. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t let this opportunity slip out of my hands, Nog! I’m thinking that there must be another copy of the whole program out there—I mean, where did she get it from?”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“You know all about technology,” Quark continued. “You know how to find those secret codes that manufacturers put in their programs.”
“The digimarks.”
Quark nodded. “Yeah, that. This is just a little piece of a holonovel, but I figure it probably has the digimark on it. If you can tell me who made this, I can track him down and work out a deal for exclusive distribution rights.”
“Not a bad idea,” Nog said, pulling a small chip reader from his tool kit. It wouldn’t show him the contents of the program (which was too bad, considering the way his uncle was salivating over it), but theoretically it would show him the manufacturer. He placed the chip into the device and activated the scanner. Then he did it again. And then a third time. “That’s weird.”
“What? What’s weird?” Quark squeaked.
“There’s no digimark on this. That’s pretty unusual. Publishers usually encode their programs at every stage so they can control their property. But all that shows up on this is the title, Lust’s Latinum Lost.” He popped the program out of his reader and examined the chip itself. “This thing plays in the holosuite?”
Quark sighed and flicked one of his lob
es. “Oh, yes, it certainly does.” His expression changed to one of dismay. “So . . . you can’t find any clues on it at all?”
“Sorry,” Nog said, handing the chip back to Quark. “Say, who issued the earlier holonovels?”
“Broht and Forrester. Big publisher. Done a lot of business with them. Vulcan Love Slave is their most profitable franchise. But I have to say, this sample looks a lot more classy than any of the previous ones.”
“Well, maybe they got a new producer and they’re publishing another sequel. And Rionoj somehow managed to get hold of an advance copy.”
Quark’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, that would be like her. And if anyone knows how to remove a digimark, it’s her. Or one of her cronies.” The Ferengi ambassador brightened considerably. “Thank you, Nog!”
Quark scurried toward the exit, waving at O’Brien en route. “Thanks, Chief! Stop in sometime for an ale!”
O’Brien shook his head as Nog walked toward him. “Never mind the ale,” he muttered. “Just get that damn dartboard.” He glanced at the young Ferengi. “Did he say something about Broht ’n’ Forrester?”
Nog nodded.
“They make the Dixon Hill holonovels, don’t they? Captain Picard loved those. He used to invite members of the crew to play different roles.” He smiled, and for a moment O’Brien seemed lost in a pleasant memory from the past. Then his eyes refocused on Nog and he scowled. “What the hell are you standing around for? We’ve got a job to finish.”
“On it!”
And Nog dived back into his safe, homey hidey-hole.
5
“Ardon Broht’s office.”
Quark suppressed a shudder as the static on his screen coalesced into the image of a neatly dressed humanoid with a fleshy pink face and a disgustingly transparent skull.
Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: Lust's Latinum Lost (and Found) Page 2
