Thank you for downloading this Pocket Star Books eBook.
* * *
Sign up for our newsletter and receive special offers, access to bonus content, and info on the latest new releases and other great eBooks from Pocket Star Books and Simon & Schuster.
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
or visit us online to sign up at
eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com
To Margaret Clark,
who always has such good ideas!
“Dignity and an empty sack . . . is worth the sack.”
—109th Rule
Ferengi Rules of Acquisition
Historian’s Note
With the exception of the Prelude, set in 2371, this story takes place in 2385 (post Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: The Missing, pre Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: Sacraments of Fire).
PRELUDE
2371 AC
Bartleby squinted at the illuminated parchment.
Almost finished, he thought.
He flicked his tongue into a kylix of saltmarsh tea, sipped several drams of the refreshing liquid, then peered at his collection of antique quills, brushes, reeds, and styluses.
The Gunji jackdaw perhaps, he thought, picking up a downy quill. He examined the blunt nib, frowned, and carefully laid the quill back in its case. Too wide. Slowly wavering his foreped above the collection, the Kalpazan paused several times before moving on. Ah, the Terellian pheasant, he thought finally, and he lifted the rachis closer to the light. Plucked from under the wing. Very delicate—not unlike the flavor of the donor’s flesh. Perhaps I’ll partake of some at the conclusion of this transaction.
The Kalpazan dipped the quill’s nib into a tiny well of liquid latinum, turned to balance the nib lightly above the parchment, and, with a sudden twist of his furry wrist, drew an elaborate swirl under the final line of text. Perfect, he thought. No one will suspect.
He polished the tip of the quill and returned the tool to its case, then glanced at his cluttered worktable. Now where did I put my alterizing beacon? He reached under a carelessly folded tapestry woven with figures of bateret leaves that lay across a toppled El-Aurian Angel of Flame crucible. I really must straighten this place up one day, he thought. Pulling a customized palm beacon from under the tapestry, he checked the setting carefully. Then slowly, very slowly, he passed the beacon’s ray over the parchment. The parchment shriveled. The colors transformed. The delicate work of art grew darker, a little murky—older, somehow. Finally he set the alterizer down, rolled the parchment into a scroll, and laid it next to another, identical, scroll. Then he carefully slid the scrolls into metallic cylinders, each elaborately decorated in ancient Ferengi motifs.
Leaning on his cane, Bartleby shuffled to the entrance of his workroom and opened the door. “Finished!” he said to his waiting client. “I think your employer will be quite pleased.” Placing the cylinders into the client’s hands, he stated, “Now remember, the original is in this cylinder, and the copy is in here. Do not mix them up.”
The client stared at the two cylinders for a long moment, then grunted in confirmation. Placing three bricks of latinum on the counter, he turned and left the dilapidated hovel.
As the echo of footsteps faded into the distance, Bartleby smiled and began to think about lunch.
Chapter 1
FOURTEEN YEARS LATER
2385 AC
Morning on Deep Space 9.
Or, rather, what passes for it in an artificial environment that offers no traditional clues as to the arrival of dawn or dusk.
The sound of Shmenge’s boot heels resonated as he exited the lift and walked along the perimeter of the Plaza.
All was peaceful in this section of the space station. The kiosks were closed up tight. So were most of the shops. The ambient lighting of the large open area was set low.
But Shmenge didn’t feel peaceful.
He felt grumpy.
Everybody is still sleeping, he thought. I should still be sleeping.
Quark recently had assigned Shmenge to the morning shift—“the sucker shift,” as the other bar employees referred to it. Hardly any customers came into Quark’s before the lunch hour—and the ones that did show up had a tendency to be grouchy, and cheap as a Vlugtan suit. (Shmenge had never met any Vlugtans, but their couturial reputation preceded them.)
His co-workers told Shmenge that Quark usually assigned the morning shift to employees that he wanted to punish for perceived infractions. Say, showing up late. Or breaking too many glasses. Or getting caught cheating a customer. (Cheating a customer was encouraged; getting caught by the customer was not.)
But as far as Shmenge knew, he hadn’t committed any infractions. In fact, his term as an apprentice at the bar had only benefited his employer. Hadn’t Shmenge broadened Quark’s revenue stream with those program upgrades he’d brought back from Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet? Hadn’t he demonstrated what a good teacher Quark was by siphoning a percentage of that very revenue for himself? What more could Quark expect from an apprentice?
His irritation at his shoddy treatment mounting, Shmenge began to mumble to himself, uttering a series of curses—some real, some made up (he had little experience with such expressions and had taken a creative approach to broadening his vocabulary). At last his anger boiled over.
“Blasted fladderap!” he spouted at the top of his lungs, his words echoing across the Plaza.
Horrified, Shmenge clapped his hands across his mouth. He hadn’t realized that he was speaking out loud.
But . . . it really didn’t matter. No one was around to hear him, anyway.
Everybody is sleeping. Everybody but me.
Quark’s Public House, Café, Gaming Emporium, Holosuite Arcade, and Ferengi Embassy was quiet when Shmenge entered. Broik was the only waiter on duty, a holdover from the night shift, and his only task was keeping an eye on things while the automated cleaners robo-sanitized the floors and freshened the ’fresher.
And Quark always made sure there was a dabo girl on call in the morning, “just in case.” Shmenge had yet to figure out what that case might be. Nobody ever played dabo in the morning. The assigned dabo girl—today it was M’Pella—usually spent the time snoozing on the big dabo table.
He saw Broik lazily rubbing a polishing rag against the brass handrail that led to the bar’s second level. The lower portion of the handrail already looked pretty shiny, but the portion near the top of the stairs—not so much. Shmenge thought about pointing that out, but Broik, spotting him, immediately broke into a snaggle-toothed grin and tossed him the polishing rag.
“Boy, am I relieved to see you,” he said, chuckling at his own wit as he headed for the front door.
Broik made that same joke every day. “Yeah, yeah—you’re relieved,” Shmenge responded, despite the fact that his co-worker was already out of earshot. He sighed and glanced around the large room.
Over at the dining tables, a young Bolian cautiously sampled the day’s replicated breakfast special—a “hash” consisting of whatever protein substance Quark had preprogrammed to resemble hash that day. At the bar, a rumpled Andorian downed a “hair of the targ” in hopes of fending off a hangover. Seeing as he’d been there six mornings in a row, Shmenge figured that the poor targ must be nearly bald by now.
With a clank and a rumble, the automated cleaner emerged from the ’fresher, its job done for the day. As Shmenge watched it roll down the back hallway and head for the storage closet, he noticed M’Pella standing near the door to Quark’s office.
Quark hardly ever comes in this early, he thought. I wonder what she’s . . . He was about to investigate when a shrill whistl
e grabbed his attention. He turned to see that the bar now had another customer—an ancient Grazerite male seated at a corner table.
Shmenge hustled over. “Yes, sir,” he said by rote. “What’ll it be?”
A pair of rheumy eyes rolled upward and focused on the waiter with difficulty. “What is today’s special?”
“It’s up on the sign, sir,” Shmenge said, pointing to the glowing letters on a nearby wall panel. “I’ll be right back after you’ve decided.”
And he ran back to the hallway. “What’s—” he began, then stopped as M’Pella placed a cautionary finger to her lips: the universal sign for “Shut Up.”
Apparently Quark was in his office, and M’Pella was eavesdropping. Shmenge approached cautiously. He listened for a second, noting the decibel level of Quark’s voice. “Who is he yelling at?” he whispered.
“Someone on the comm,” she mouthed. “But I can’t make out what it’s about.”
“Allow me,” Shmenge said, proudly gesturing at his large auricles. And he placed the cup of one ear against the door, bringing the conversation through loud and clear.
“WHEN?!” Quark was shouting. “It’s a reasonable question, Rom, and it’s not like I haven’t been asking it for weeks!”
Grand Nagus Rom’s transmitted response wasn’t quite as audible—he wasn’t shouting—but Shmenge could comprehend most of it. “. . . not sure, Brother. I’ve been very busy . . . negotiating new labor contract . . . maybe next month?”
“You said that LAST month!” Quark exploded in response. “Do you want people to say you’re shirking your nagal responsibilities? I can’t legitimately call this bar the new Ferengi embassy until the Grand Nagus dedicates it. And he has to be HERE to do that!”
Suddenly the shrill whistle again summoned Shmenge away from the door.
“Can’t read that,” said the Grazerite, pointing to the wall panel. “Letters are too small.”
The letters actually were quite large—and so bright that customers often complained that they hurt their eyes—but Shmenge opted not to mention that. No point eliminating the one opportunity he’d have to earn a tip this morning. “It’s hash, sir. Greebly hash.”
The Grazerite frowned and lowered his large hairy eyebrows in confusion, shading his eyes like an awning. “Greebly? What is that? Some sort of animal?”
Shmenge opened his mouth to respond, then shut it when he realized he had no idea what greebly was. “Um, could be. It sounds like an insect, doesn’t it? Or maybe a rodent.”
The ruminant’s face grew flushed. “Young man, do you think that Grazerites eat insects or rodents!” he said, his voice rising in indignation.
“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Shmenge admitted. “I try not to pry into customers’ personal lifestyles.” He tried to look thoughtful. “You know, it might not be rodent. Or insect. Why don’t I find out for you? And I’ll bring you a complimentary beverage when I come back.” He offered up what he hoped was a winning smile and dashed back to M’Pella and Quark—
—who was still, apparently, yelling at Rom. “Do you know what a well-publicized dedication ceremony would do for my business?” the boss’s voice rang through the door. “Everybody LOVES a good open house! Free appetizers! Free—no—half-priced drinks! Door prizes!”
“. . . don’t see how I can come now, Brother,” Rom’s voice responded. “You don’t know what it’s like trying to keep the ship of state afloat . . . sometimes . . . feel like I’m treading water—”
“I don’t care if you’re adrift in an evacuation dinghy! We’re talking about MY bar and MY embassy and MY welfare! Have you gotten so selfish that you don’t care about—” There was a pause, and Shmenge thought he heard the sound of a third voice, this one sweet and feminine and softer than that of the Grand Nagus. In apparent response, Quark said, “Oh. Hello, Leeta. You’re looking, umm, fit. I was just telling your husband that—what are you—no, wait—DON’T PUT ME ON HOLD!”
And suddenly Shmenge was listening to hold music: a recording of a popular Ferengi dance tune—“Tickle My Lobes and Tell Me That You Love Me”—covered by an enthusiastic Algolian synth band. It was a snappy little number that Shmenge liked, but Quark apparently didn’t have any fondness for it. His scream of frustration was so loud that Shmenge was forced to leap away from the door, rubbing his ear frantically.
Just in time to once again hear the Grazerite’s impatient whistle.
Grabbing the first beverage he came across behind the bar, Shmenge hurried back to his customer and set it before him.
The Grazerite’s eyes bulged as he stared at the bottle. “What in Gre’thor—Romulan ale? Is this what you call a breakfast beverage?”
Shmenge did a double take as he glanced at the bottle. “Oops! Sorry about that.” He reached for it. “I’ll bring you some nice Tarkalean tea—”
But the Grazerite slapped his hand away. “I didn’t say I didn’t want it. Leave it right there while you tell me about greebly.”
Shmenge sighed and pulled out the small padd he kept in his back pocket. “Greebly is . . . hmmm.” He glanced over at his customer. “So . . . are Grazerites fond of small reptiles?”
The Grazerite uttered a sharp grunt of disgust.
“Well, maybe you want to skip today’s special. But I think we may be able to program some Cardassian groatmeal. I’m told it’s very . . . uh . . . groaty. The Cardassians seem to like it.”
The Grazerite struggled to his feet. “Never mind,” he harrumphed. “I’ll go to the Replimat.”
The ancient creature began to totter away, then suddenly returned to grab the bottle Shmenge had brought him. “You did say it was complimentary,” he snapped as he shuffled off.
Shmenge watched in dismay, realizing the tab for the pricey Romulan beverage would be deducted from his pay.
This day is not getting any better, he thought. He glanced over at Quark’s door, noting that M’Pella had gotten bored and wandered over to the dabo table to resume her nap.
Shmenge contemplated his next move. He supposed he could finish polishing the brass rail.
On the other hand, it might be worth his time to hear the end of Quark’s conversation with the Nagus. As the 9th Rule says: Opportunity plus instinct equals profit.
Placing his ear against the door, he noticed that the hold music was still playing. It really is a catchy tune, Shmenge thought, and he began to hum along.
Chapter 2
Leeta leaned over Rom’s shoulder, smiled at the face on the monitor, and said, “I need to speak with Rom for a minute.” Her brother-in-law’s “DON’T PUT ME ON HOLD! ” hung in the air as she decisively jabbed the pause button. You can’t tell me what to do anymore, Quark! she thought. Lively electronic music filled the room as the Ferengi symbol of state replaced the agitated face on the monitor.
Rom twisted his head around to look at her in surprise. “Why did you do that?” he asked. “That’s just going to make him even madder.”
“I don’t want him to hear me.” The lovely Bajoran pressed her silky cheek against her husband’s. “Oh, Rom,” she said softly. “I hate to say it, but Quark is right. Dedicating the new embassy is your responsibility. You’ve been so busy trying to handle everything here at home that you’ve neglected your off-world commitments. Ferenginar won’t collapse if you leave for a little while to do what needs to be done elsewhere. Everything here will have to wait. But so what? It’s like the seventh diagonal spin of the dabo wheel. It’s a necessary move, even though the best result is that there’s no harm done.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Rom said, glancing back at the symbol rotating on the screen. “But I’m not sure that the Congress of Economic Advisors would agree with you about no harm being done. They’re already upset with me because of all the delays. I think that I’d rather have just my brother mad at me.”
“Don’t be silly!” Leeta said with a
smile. “They won’t be mad at you, because Quark will invite all those same advisors to the dedication! They’ll be off-planet too. And they won’t be thinking about that unresolved labor situation—they’ll be thinking about dabo girls and free appetizers! The trip will be like a vacation for them. And,” she whispered, her lips delicately brushing her husband’s lobe, “it’ll be one for us too. Kind of like a second honeymoon.”
And then she giggled, a sweet little sound that Rom could never resist. As he gazed at Leeta’s face, he felt that old quivery feeling, that tiny inner click, the one that overwhelmed him every time he saw the beautiful wrinkled bridge of her nose. Suddenly all concerns about being Grand Nagus dissipated. “I’d like that,” he admitted, “but do you really think the space station would be a good place for a second honeymoon?”
“Why not? We had our first honeymoon there—remember?”
“I kind of remember that the Dominion War got in the way for a while.”
“Yes, but it did finally happen, didn’t it?” Leeta pressed.
“Yeah,” Rom admitted, blushing. “Yeah. It sure did.” Suddenly he laughed. The tension in his shoulders visibly disappeared, and Leeta knew she was going to win. But to close the deal, she added a few incentives.
“And just think, Rom. We can see some of our old friends. You can get together with Chief O’Brien and the other engineers. And I can catch up with my friends at the bar. Maybe we can even take a day trip to Bajor. I know my relatives would love to see Bena. They haven’t seen her since she was a baby.”
Rom sighed. “It’s too bad Nog is away on assignment. Bena would have loved to see her brother.”
Leeta smiled inwardly. “Then you’ll do it?”
“You know I can’t say no to you,” he answered. “Especially when you’re right.”
Rom—feeling like Grand Nagus Rom once again—reached for the pause button. But Leeta abruptly climbed into his lap and enveloped him in a hug. “I knew there was a reason I married you. You are just the sweetest man in the galaxy.” And she pressed her warm, wonderful lips against his.
Rules of Accusation Page 1
