Nog sighed. No, he certainly didn’t. It was one of the First Ten, the rules that Ferengi schoolchildren were required to write over and over again on their work padds: “Never allow family to stand in the way of opportunity.”
A short time later, as Nog washed the last grub down with a swig of root beer, Shmenge emerged from the back room carrying a tray of clean glasses. As he set them down behind Quark, the apprentice glanced over his boss’s shoulder at the numbers on the padd.
“Hah!” he exclaimed, a broad grin splitting his face. “Have you seen the figures on Holosuite Number Seven?!”
“I have,” Quark responded testily. “And I don’t pay you to keep tabs on how many customers go into each suite. Now get back to work!”
“You don’t pay me anything,” chuckled an uncowed Shmenge. “I’m an entrepreneur.” And he sauntered off to bus tables.
“What was that about?” Nog asked.
“Nothing,” Quark said with a scowl. “Just an example of why a businessman should always think twice before accepting free services. Especially services arranged by his mother. Everything free comes with a price.”
“Well, what did he do?” Nog persisted.
“ ‘What did he do?’ ” Quark repeated irritably. “I’ll tell you what he did. That little dweezel brought home every damned premium offered to him at Holo-Palooza. Even the crap that normal people would throw away.”
“So?” prompted Nog, puzzled.
“And the idiot fell for those come-ons that the vendors use to lure you into their sales booths,” Quark continued. “I mean—seriously. Everyone knows they’re just a waste of time, most of them.”
“Okay, sure. But what’s the problem?” Nog asked.
“The problem,” Quark said, gnashing his teeth, “is that mixed in with all of this crap—which is currently taking up valuable space in my employee lounge, by the way—he finds advance copies of new programs. Programs that won’t be out on the open market for weeks! And a secret code that unlocks a back door on Bashir’s old spy program, elevating it to a whole new level of play. That one alone is worth a small fortune to certain people!”
Nog was beginning to understand his uncle’s ire, although he found he wasn’t all that sympathetic. “Well, good for him. He lucked into picking up stuff that you ignored. What’s he plan to do with that stuff?”
“Him?” spat Quark. “It’s all useless to him. The programs are for professional-level holosuites. Does he own or operate a holosuite? No! I was the one who figured out what to do with them. I was the one who installed them in Holosuite Seven. Because I knew my customers would find them a good distraction while waiting for their VLS number to come up.”
Nog scratched his head. “Okay, I’m not seeing the downside. You’re making some extra money that you didn’t anticipate, while—”
“The downside,” Quark growled, “is that Shmenge refused to hand the programs over to me! I told him he was required to, because apprentice or not, contractually he was an employee, accompanying me on an official business trip. Except he actually read the contract and found out that because he paid his own way into the conference, he technically owns everything he acquired there.”
Nog grimaced, comprehending at last. “Ouch.”
Quark’s mouth twisted as if he’d bitten into a sour greeple fruit. “Ouch, indeed! I was actually forced to negotiate with him. I offered to buy them from him—give him a nice profit on something he didn’t pay for in the first place. But he refused unless . . .”
“Unless what?” Nog said breathlessly.
“Unless I make him a partner in the earnings those programs bring in.”
“A partner!” Nog gasped in horror.
Quark shushed his nephew loudly, glancing around to make sure no one had been listening. Then he whispered, “They’re installed only in that one suite. And most of those new programs will be available everywhere by the end of the month—so there’s only a small window when they’re valuable to me. But,” he sighed, “while that window is open—”
“You’ve got a profit participant,” finished Nog. “Wow. Sorry, Uncle.”
Quark shrugged. “It’s embarrassing,” he admitted. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread it around.”
Nog leaned back on his barstool. “So between the travel costs to Wrigley’s, Shmenge’s cut, and the repairs on the shuttle—”
“You heard about that?”
Nog grinned. “It’s a small station, Uncle.” He took another swallow of root beer. “This whole adventure must have cost you a fortune. How much did you say Rionoj originally wanted for the program?”
“Never mind that. She knew I’d never go for it. She wouldn’t have sold it to me back then even if I’d agreed to her price. Pel had this whole thing thought out in advance. Apparently she wanted to make sure I really appreciated what I was getting.” He shook his head, clearly mystified by the way the feminine mind worked. “But financially, it’s not quite as bad as it sounds.”
He placed his padd on the counter and spun it around so his nephew could read it. “Look,” he said, pressing a button on the device. Instantly the list of expenses split into three columns. “These are my costs,” he said, pointing to the first column. “And these”—he moved his finger to the second column—“are Shmenge’s expenses for his ‘higher-level business extension course.’ ” Quark smiled proudly. “If he thinks he’s ready to join the financial big leagues and swim with the lampire fish, he’s going to have to learn what it feels like to have a little blood drained.”
Nog scrutinized the numbers, then whistled again. “Nice figuring, Uncle. Does Shmenge know about these charges?”
Quark smiled. “I thought I’d save that for the day he receives his first profit voucher.”
“And what’s this?” Nog asked, pointing to the third column.
The bartender’s face took on a particularly crafty countenance. “That, my dear nephew, is your father’s share of the expenses.”
“My father—what—?”
“It’s all very simple,” said Quark, reaching down to retrieve a bottle that was stowed beneath the bar. Nog eyed the glowing bottle curiously as his uncle poured a small aperitif but shook his head when Quark offered him a taste. “Your father, Gint help us all, is the nagus, and the nagus traditionally absorbs all embassy-related expenses. This entire gambit was clearly in the best interests of the embassy, which is to say, Ferenginar itself. I have therefore sent your father an invoice for the items in this column.”
“You did?” Nog blinked, surprised. “And he paid?”
“Not yet—but he will. I explained it all very carefully, using short, easy-to-understand words.” Quark took a sip of his drink, clearly relishing the smooth burn as it went down. “I mean, think how proud Rom and his political associates will be the next time they visit the embassy—and the holosuites. The hottest new holonovel in the quadrant . . .”
Far across the room, Nog noticed Broik elbowing his way through the crowd. The waiter collided with several customers and knocked a drink out of the hands of another during his arduous journey. Panting slightly, he bellied up to the bar.
“You do realize you’re supposed to serve drinks, not spill them, right?” Quark said with a sneer.
“Sorry, Boss,” Broik said. “There’s a call for you on the embassy hotline.”
“Speak of the devil,” Quark said, flashing a grin at Nog. “I’ll take it out here, Broik. And buy that Andorian another drink.” As the waiter shuffled away, Quark activated the monitor behind the bar. Instantly, his brother’s face appeared on the screen. “Well, hello, Rom—excuse me—Grand Nagus. I was just telling your son how much I looked forward to hearing from you.”
Rom looked surprised. “You were?”
“Yes, of course. I wanted to tell you how great business
is here on the station, thanks to your investment.”
“My . . . investment . . . oh . . .” Now Rom’s expression changed to one of concern. “Uh, actually, Brother, I was calling to let you know that my . . . uh . . . finance minister has finished reviewing your invoice.”
“Oh, yes?” responded Quark, smiling his sweetest smile.
“Uh . . . yes. And, uh, she says we can reimburse you for the line item related to ‘protecting the life of the ambassador’—that’s you, Brother—but she feels that the other expenses pertain only to the bar, so . . .” He paused.
For a very long moment.
Uh-oh, thought Nog. This isn’t going to be good.
“. . . So we can’t approve them.”
“You can’t— WHAT?!” said Quark, his face taking on a florid hue.
“Uh—that’s all I wanted to say,” stated the nagus, clearly eager to end the conversation. “Leeta and Bena send their love! Bye!”
And Rom’s image faded into the Ferengi seal of state, indicating the connection had been severed.
Quark stared at the screen for a long time, his jaw slack. Nog quelled the impulse to laugh; after all, he lived on the station, and he didn’t want to risk souring his relationship with the barkeep.
“I can’t believe it,” the bartender said at last. “My own brother!”
“That’s terrible, Uncle,” Nog offered, a study in pseudosympathy.
“Did you hear that? He’s got a fe-male finance minister! I’ll bet Mother got him to hire her. In fact,” he snarled, “it probably is Mother. I tell you, it’s Armageddon over there. No one has any respect for Rule Ninety-Four anymore. How could anyone forget that fe-males and finances . . .”
“. . . don’t mix,” concluded Nog rotely. He finished his root beer and got to his feet. “I’d better turn in. Another long day tomorrow. Good night, Uncle.”
Quark barely noticed his nephew’s exit. He was too busy fuming. Fe-males! Can’t live with them, can’t—
“Number Eighty-Three!” Hetik’s voice called out, breaking into Quark’s thoughts. A second later, a shout of “Dabo!” arose from the gaming area, followed by the traditional round of inebriated cheers.
Quark hadn’t heard that sound in quite a while.
He looked around the bar. The joint was jumping, even though it was long past closing time for other businesses on the Plaza.
It’s almost like the old days, on the old station, he thought.
He poured himself another shot of the Therbian liquor—a parting gift from Pel before she left the station—and studied his padd once again. Reluctantly, he moved the unapproved expenses out of the nagus’s column, then shuddered as the Total Deficit entry rose correspondingly.
Not great. But considering the uptick in holosuite activity—not to mention alcohol and food sales—it shouldn’t take all that long to get out of the hole.
He tapped a finger on the counter, pondering. Maybe he would raise the price of synthale. Temporarily. He could blame it on . . . hmmm . . . wasn’t this a bad year for synthetic hops? It must be, somewhere.
Idly, Quark ran his finger along his right lobe and found himself thinking of Pel. She’s a crafty one, all right—but she didn’t fleece me for nearly as much as she could have.
Which only proved his point: females were too sentimental to be good businessmen.
But, he had to admit, if any female wound up getting Rule 94 permanently erased from the books, it probably would be Pel.
Quark glanced toward the busy holosuites. Then he leaned forward, rested his head on his hand, and sighed.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We wish to acknowledge the friendly Star Trek fiction writers (there are dozens of you!) who dedicate your terrific talents to expanding this universe beyond the television and movie medium. And we wish to send a special thanks to our far-seeing editor Margaret Clark for prompting us to park our nonfiction shuttle and follow your navigational charts on our own voyage into fiction. We have no idea how you knew we’d have so much fun!
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Paula M. Block and Terry J. Erdmann are the coauthors of Star Trek: The Original Topps Trading Card Series, Star Trek: The Next Generation 365, Star Trek: The Original Series 365, Star Trek 101, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine Companion, The Secrets of Star Trek Insurrection, The Magic of Tribbles, and Star Trek: Action! Their additional titles include Monk: The Official Episode Guide and The 4400 Companion. As a licensing director for Paramount Pictures, Paula was coeditor of Pocket Books’ short story series Star Trek: Strange New Worlds. During his career in film publicity, Terry authored The Last Samurai Official Companion. They live in southern Oregon with their two collies, Shadow and Mandy.
We hope you enjoyed reading this Pocket Star Books eBook.
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First Pocket Star Books ebook edition September 2014
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Cover art by Michael Stetson
ISBN 978-1-4767-7931-7
Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: Lust's Latinum Lost (and Found) Page 9
