Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: Lust's Latinum Lost (and Found)

by Paula M. Block

  This doesn’t look promising, Quark thought.

  Radioactive Residuals stood alone, a low-slung mud structure on a dark street reminiscent of the Wrigley’s that had lost its cachet over the years. Only the sign shimmering above the entrance announcing the establishment’s name showed any possibility of life. Reluctantly, Quark pulled open the heavy wooden door. “After you,” he said, stepping aside and nudging his surprised apprentice in before him.

  They found themselves at the top of a staircase that led into a natural cave of unenhanced rough-hewn walls surrounding a surprisingly lively bar. The primary source of lighting came from the house beverages, which glowed like the fires of Kri’stak, bringing to mind the contaminated outpouring from a faulty warp core. All around the room Quark could see radiant drinks in vivid shades of red, purple, orange, green, and blue.

  “Go find something to do,” he instructed Shmenge, who obliged by dropping onto a stool at the bar and reviewing some of the digital handouts from the conference on his padd. Quark seated himself at a table that faced the front door and studied the chronometer on his own padd.

  Twelve minutes.

  Shmenge’s free drink card netted Quark a Therbian Thrill, that day’s special. Quark had heard of Therbian liquor and knew its reputation as a cherished intoxicant, but he’d never bothered to stock it on DS9. Distilled from the saliva of elderly Therbian monks on the planet Aaamazzara, the liquor definitely wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. However, Quark tried not to be too judgmental when it came to refreshments; he looked forward to sampling it.

  As the attractive Argelian server approached Quark’s table with his drink, the cocktail’s yellow-green phosphorescence illuminated the contours of her upper-body musculature.

  She set it down in front of him with a smile. “Visor, sir?”

  Quark squinted at the drink. “Do I need one?”

  “Some species are very sensitive to light, so we’re required to ask.” She studied him briefly. “Let’s see—you’re a . . . Ferengi? No, I wouldn’t think so.”

  She disappeared into the darkness, leaving Quark to ponder his potable. He took a sip, savoring the harmonious mix of mint, mold, and musk, accented with just a hint of . . . hmmm . . . is that beetle? and a refreshing acidic finish. He smacked his lips in approval. Not bad. Not bad at all.

  He was actually considering paying for a refill when a shapely silhouette appeared at the entrance of the bar and snagged his attention. Backlit by the glow of the exterior sign, Quark knew that the new arrival was female, but that was all he could tell.

  Her eyesight, apparently, was keener than his; she walked directly to his table. “You are Quark?”

  “I am. Please, have a—”

  But she was already seating herself. “I appreciate your punctuality,” she said.

  “And I yours,” he responded amiably. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “That is not necessary,” she responded. “You have questions for me?”

  “I have questions for the writer of the Vulcan Love Slave series,” Quark said. “Would that be you?”

  “I am the series’ key technical consultant,” she said.

  “And that means . . . ?”

  “I am the primary writer and producer of the three VLS volumes.”

  There was something familiar about her voice. “That’s, uh, that’s very impressive,” Quark noted as he tried to get a good look at her face. But the damn bar was too dark. He thought he saw the outline of a pointy ear, but it could have been his imagination. She’s Vulcan? I guess that would make sense—they’d need a Vulcan consultant for the series. But there’s something else— “Are you sure you won’t have a drink?” he urged.

  “I am not thirsty,” she responded.

  Okay, fine—forget subtlety. Quark lifted the still-glowing glass that had held his Therbian Thrill and angled it toward her face, illuminating her delicate features. She was, indeed, Vulcan, and strikingly beautiful. And—

  The vague sense of familiarity he’d been experiencing abruptly swelled up and threatened to overwhelm him as he recognized her.

  “T’lana!” he gasped, nearly dropping the glass.

  She grasped his forearm firmly and lowered his hand—and the glass—to the table. “Please keep your voice down,” she said, glancing around the bar. “You may call me that if you wish—but do it quietly.”

  “T’lana,” he repeated softly. “I . . . I didn’t know you were real.” Quark felt slightly giddy. It wasn’t every day that one met a private fantasy.

  “I can assure you, I am quite real. You are no doubt confused by my resemblance to the character’s holographic matrix, which is modeled on my appearance.”

  “No doubt,” Quark said distantly. “But . . . but what are you doing here?”

  “As I said, I am a holonovel writer and producer. I am participating in seminars hosted by the conference.”

  “But you’re a . . . a . . .” He searched for the word. “A holo-actress,” he concluded.

  “I am a level-eighteen programmer,” she responded crisply. “It is foolish to assume that one cannot hold a major technical position as well as a minor artistic role. However, I am not here to capitalize on the latter.”

  “No, of course not,” Quark murmured agreeably. “That would be . . . uh . . . tacky.” Actually, he thought that capitalizing on her artistic role would have been a logical move. Publicity, after all, moved a mountain of merchandise—

  His train of thought jolted to a halt as a padd was thrust into his face. Shmenge, predictably, was attached to it. “Boss, look. It says here that T’lana was scheduled to sign autographs in the B and F sales kiosk today—”

  It was only then that Shmenge’s gaze drifted from Quark to the person seated across the table. His jaw and his padd dropped at the same time, the latter landing on the tabletop with a noisy clatter. To his credit, however, the apprentice was a quick study. Clearly his boss was playing an angle that Shmenge hadn’t had the foresight to envision. He recovered his padd, stuffed it into his pocket, and pulled up a chair to observe the action at close range.

  “Autographs, eh?” A grin spread across Quark’s face. “Go ahead, my dear,” he urged the female. “You were saying something about your lack of interest in capitalizing on your performance in front of the holo-cameras.”

  T’lana gently cleared her throat. “Some contractual obligations are unavoidable,” she said smoothly.

  “So you work for Broht,” Quark said.

  “I work for several publishers, primarily behind the scenes,” she parried. “But yes, until recently I had a broad consultation arrangement with Broht’s firm.”

  “The VLS series,” Quark said.

  “Yes.”

  He decided to get straight to the point. “Are you responsible for the new VLS program? And please don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “That would be an illogical prevarication,” T’lana responded calmly. “I must assume that you’ve come here because you have seen evidence of the new sequel’s existence. I cannot take all the credit, but yes—I collaborated in its creation.”

  Quark released a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Verification at last! “So Broht was lying,” he muttered. “He knew about it all the time.”

  She shook her head. “VLS IV is not a Broht and Forrester project. My appearance at the sales kiosk was the fulfillment of my final commitment to the company. Broht doesn’t know about the new program.”

  Oops. A tiny bead of cold sweat dripped down Quark’s neck. “Uh, well, he does now. I sort of suggested that one exists.”

  T’lana stared at him. “And how did he react?”

  Quark rubbed his neck uneasily as he recalled the conversation. “Uh, he didn’t appear to be happy.”

&nb
sp; “Then I would suggest that we continue this meeting elsewhere,” the Vulcan said, rising to her feet.

  Quark studied her for a second. He was tired of playing cat-and-mouse games. “Look . . . T’lana. This has been a long day. Is there something for us to continue meeting about? I want Lust’s Latinum Lost if you have it.” He stood up and looked her in the eye. “Do you have it?”

  T’lana glanced around cautiously. “It is not on this planet. But I know where it is. I can tell you whom to contact.”

  “For a fee.”

  “Of course,” she replied.

  Quark considered. “No,” he said at last.

  Now Shmenge got to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process. “No?” he echoed bewilderedly.

  T’lana ignored the youth and raised an elegant eyebrow at Quark. “Explain.”

  “You seem like a nice girl, T’lana, but I know that Vulcans are as capable of deceit as any other species. Certainly the T’lana in the holonovels is, and for all intents and purposes, that’s you. I’m not laying out another slip until I’m actually holding the program in my hands. I’ll pay you—but only when you actually deliver the product to me.”

  Now T’lana considered. “Your paranoia is irrational, but I will do what I can to alleviate it. For a modest fee, I will act as your purchasing liaison and introduce you to my partner. You may then conduct your negotiations for the product directly, without an intermediary. Would that be satisfactory?”

  Quark reviewed all the permutations of the arrangement, the ways it could go wrong or work out just fine. The odds, he decided, were evenly stacked. He likely couldn’t do better than that. “Okay,” he said. “Do you have your own transportation, or would you like to travel with us?”

  “I am assuming that your stress level would be lower if we were to travel together in your vehicle.”

  Quark nodded. As they headed up the stairs and exited out onto the street, he permitted himself a little smile. Truth be told, spending a bit more time alone (well, nearly alone, he thought, staring at Shmenge) in the company of the glorious T’lana would not be a terrible hardship, whether she was trustworthy or not.

  Who knows, maybe by the end of the trip she’ll be calling me Shmun . . .

  9

  “Didn’t I tell you to input the bay number on your padd!” growled Quark.

  “I did input the bay number,” Shmenge protested. “I just didn’t input the level. But how hard is it to find a level? There can’t be more than a dozen.”

  “There are thirty-two,” said T’lana, studying a location map near the entrance to the docking structure. “Assuming, of course, this is the correct structure.”

  “Of course this is it,” the young Ferengi said brightly. “Look, there’s the tram station. I remember seeing it right in front of us when we left.”

  “This spaceport is laid out like a big wheel, you idiot,” spouted Quark. “You can see the tram station right in front of you from all the docking structures—”

  “Gentlemen,” T’lana interrupted, gesturing at a featureless black information monolith near the perimeter of the spaceport’s docking area.

  Quark strode over to it. “No buttons, so it must be voice activated,” he guessed. He cleared his throat and addressed the slab. “We are looking for the location of our vessel.”

  A flurry of bright lights appeared at the monolith’s center, twinkling like stars.

  “Pretty,” Shmenge said, oblivious of Quark’s heated glare.

  The stars flashed into a circular pattern that began spinning. And spinning.

  “What’s it waiting for?” Quark asked at last. Shmenge shrugged.

  T’lana exhaled deeply and shouldered past the two Ferengi. “WORM47,” she told the monolith. If she hadn’t been Vulcan, Quark would have sworn he detected a tad of impatience in her demeanor.

  A portion of the stars coalesced into a glowing symbol matching the design on the docking structure next to the one they’d been searching; the rest of the stars morphed into the level and bay numbers.

  “See? Bay five forty-five! I told you I had that right!” exclaimed Shmenge.

  Quark resisted kicking him.

  It wasn’t until they rounded the corner and faced the shuttle that Quark realized he had a bigger problem than a dim-witted apprentice. About two meters big—and extremely ugly.

  This can’t be good, he thought. “To what do we owe this pleasure, Franti?”

  “Mister Broht requests a meeting,” the Nausicaan said, his deep, threatening tone resonating as the trio drew near.

  Quark nodded. “You know, I would just love to accommodate him, but I have a more pressing appointment. You see, I’m a Very. Busy. Man. Why don’t you tell Ardon to call the Ferengi Embassy? Shmenge will be happy to set something up for him. Sometime next year, perhaps?”

  “That will not do,” rumbled Franti. “Mister Broht wishes to see you immediately.” He glanced past the two Ferengi, noting the female Vulcan who stood a few steps behind them. “T’lana. Yes, of course. He anticipated that. I believe it would be best if you accompanied me as well.”

  “I am no longer employed by Mister Broht,” T’lana said. “I have no interest in meeting with him.”

  “Your interest is of no interest to me,” Franti said sternly.

  “He doesn’t want to see me, does he?” piped up Shmenge. “I don’t even know him.”

  The Nausicaan stared at the younger Ferengi but didn’t respond immediately. As Quark imagined the wheels turning inside the ugly beast’s skull, he realized that now was the time to make a break for it.

  “C’mon!” he shouted, and he charged toward the shuttle. Shmenge followed, but before they’d gotten more than a few steps, Franti grabbed both of them and lifted them off the floor. The squeal that rose from Shmenge’s throat was out-decibeled by the scream of terror emitting from Quark. The two Ferengi kicked, thrashed, and floundered in the air—until the Nausicaan lifted them up to his hideous face and gave them a sharp shake. “Stop that!” he snarled, his facial tusks twitching. “You really don’t want to make me angry.”

  Taking advantage of the distraction, T’lana slipped behind Franti, reached past his neat braid, and gave a hefty squeeze to the nerve cluster near the base of his neck. For a moment, nothing happened, and Quark figured they were about to die. Then the beast dropped like a stone, in turn dropping the two Ferengi like smaller stones. Bruised and battered stones.

  “I would suggest we depart expeditiously,” T’lana stated. Quark and Shmenge didn’t argue. They extricated themselves from under a tangle of the Nausicaan’s sprawled limbs and raced into the shuttle.

  10

  Shmenge dropped to the seat in front of the controls. “Where are we going?” he shouted as his hands fluttered wildly above the panel. He’d never felt his heart beat so fast. After confronting that Nausicaan, he was sure it couldn’t possibly beat any faster. But then—

  “Allow me,” T’lana said. Her wrist lightly brushed his lobe and he felt the warm pressure of her breast against his shoulder as she reached down to punch in a set of coordinates. The sensation jolted Shmenge’s heart rate to warp speed, and his vision began to blur. He might have swooned if the sudden firing of the shuttle’s navigation thrusters hadn’t reminded him that he was at the helm and financially responsible for a clean liftoff. My moogie never said there’d be days like this, he thought as he focused on keeping the ship from scraping the finish off a shuttlepod in the adjacent bay. Signaling the spaceport’s automated controller, he received clearance to depart.

  As they left orbit, the young Ferengi breathed an audible sigh of relief. He glanced over at T’lana. “Is there anything else that I need to do? Set a control or something? Or will it just . . .” He gestured vaguely at the navigation controls.

  “The course
is laid in,” she informed him, taking a seat. “You shouldn’t need to do anything for quite some time. Assuming we don’t run into a quasar.”

  The color drained from Shmenge’s face. “Is that, uh, likely?” the youth asked, his voice cracking in midsentence. T’lana didn’t bother to respond; she already was absorbed in something on her padd.

  Shmenge shot Quark a nervous glance, but the older Ferengi shook his head, conveying his lack of concern, and settled into the chair closest to T’lana’s. He decided not to ask where they were going; he doubted that she’d tell him anyway. Besides, if she was anything like the woman she portrayed in the holonovels, she had a preference for men who didn’t ask too many questions.

  He studied her closely. Now that he could actually see her, he could confirm that she was truly the most beautiful Vulcan female he’d ever encountered. And well preserved, too. The first Vulcan Love Slave adaptation had appeared in the marketplace more than two decades ago, but T’lana didn’t look a day older. Of course, she was a Vulcan, and as such aged more slowly than humans or Ferengi.

  Shmenge, thankfully, had finally settled down. Like T’lana, he had opted to pass the time by reading. Quark nodded approvingly when he saw that his apprentice was absorbed in a tome that he’d personally recommended: Speegal’s Little Book of Legal Larceny, a current bestseller on Ferenginar.

  Quark didn’t feel like reading. There were, however, other opportunities at hand. As he studied T’lana’s long, slender fingers, he couldn’t help thinking about how expertly she—or rather, her character—had employed them in the truncated holonovel that Rionoj had given him.

  “So,” he said, using his sweetest voice, “do you do all your own . . . uh, ‘stunts’?”

  “I cannot discuss trade secrets,” she responded, not taking her eyes off her reading.

  “I’m just curious as to the quality of the product I hope to obtain.”

  This time T’lana did lift her gaze to meet Quark’s. “The point is moot until you see it. In any event, I understand that your species has a rule regarding the aftermath of business transactions. I believe it goes, ‘Satisfaction is not guaranteed.’ ”