Rules of Accusation

by Paula M. Block

  QUARK, PROPRIETOR

  QUARK’S PUBLIC HOUSE, CAFÉ,

  GAMING EMPORIUM, HOLOSUITE ARCADE,

  AND FERENGI EMBASSY.

  Fred’s customer began to chuckle, a low rumbling sound from deep within his belly. Fred glanced again at the screen. Well, yes, the fellow was funny looking, with his huge ears and bulbous nose, but no funnier looking than the customer himself, with his teeny-weeny ears and wide, flat mouthparts. I never will understand two-legger humor, Fred thought. With a shrug, he turned his attention once again to the screen.

  “Yes, Eisla,” the big-earred alien was saying. “I personally convinced the Nagus—did I mention that the Nagus is my brother?—I convinced him that the guests at this very special event deserved to see something that no one has seen in decades: the original scroll of the Rules of Acquisition, hand-lettered in liquid latinum by Gint himself!”

  Fred’s customer choked on a swallow of his martini and began to cough. Loudly. The barkeep grabbed his control wand and raised the volume enough to compensate for the noise.

  “The Sacred Scroll truly is spectacular!” the Ferengi was saying. “Well worth the modest fee that they agreed to pay in order to feast their eyeballs on it.”

  “Well, Quark,” Eisla said with a very big smile, “that does sound very exciting. I think that our viewers would love to have a little sneak preview of the scroll, don’t you?”

  The Ferengi stared at the female in shock. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Eisla’s smile faltered briefly. “Uh . . . why, no, Quark. I’m not.”

  “Eisla, my customers—guests, that is—are paying for an exclusive viewing. I can hardly betray their trust by showing it gratis to millions of viewers.”

  Eisla looked perturbed. “Quark, you told me when I agreed to come all the way out here that you’d allow me to show the scroll in my broadcast.”

  Quark’s smile tightened. “No, Eisla, I think if you search your memory you’ll find I said you’d get exclusive coverage of the event—not the scroll.”

  The customer continued to cough until at last he managed to clear his windpipe. He spat the intrusive liquid onto the surface of the bar, and Fred quickly wiped up the spot with a napkin.

  On the screen, the FNS reporter was fuming. “Well, I think that’s all we have time for. This is Eisla Darvis, FNS Special Reports, coming to you live from Deep Space 9.”

  “Wait,” said Quark. “I didn’t get to mention the half-priced drinks!”

  But the image from the space station abruptly disappeared, replaced by a chula tournament, already in progress, on the Wadi homeworld.

  Fred studied the scoring information on the screen. “Hmmph. Second shap. Well, it doesn’t look like we missed anything important.” He glanced at his customer. “Are you all right?”

  The customer didn’t seem to hear him. His big leathery face was puckered into an expression that Fred could only interpret as deep contemplation.

  Fred tried again. “Can I get you another martini? Compliments of the house?” he added pleasantly.

  That got the big fellow’s attention. He nodded and glanced up at the screen one more time. Then he sighed, planted a large meaty elbow on the bar, and dropped his massive chin into his hand as he waited for his drink.

  Chapter 9

  “Eisla—Eisla, wait!” Quark shouted.

  The reporter ignored him, walking swiftly toward the Plaza, her FNS entourage at her classy heels.

  Shmenge suddenly appeared at Quark’s elbow. “Boy, she looked mad,” the youth observed unnecessarily.

  “Hack,” muttered Quark under his breath. Then he noticed Shmenge. “What are you doing out here?” he snapped.

  “Just thought I should let you know that it’s 1900 hours, Boss.”

  “So?”

  “So . . . uh . . . can we open?”

  Quark studied the crowd and did a quick head count. It looked like most of the invitees were there. There was no point in making them wait any longer out here—there was money to be made inside.

  “Might as well,” he said.

  Shmenge sprinted into the bar to deliver the message. A few seconds later, the force field dropped, and a flood of Ferengi-kind and a few other species flowed toward the opening, where Treir stood at her station.

  “SINGLE FILE,” she announced in an authoritative “I’ll brook no crap” tone. “Be prepared to show your RSVP receipt. If you do not have an RSVP receipt, be prepared to tender tonight’s special admission fee.” She pointed to the large sign behind her station. Only two things were on the sign: a very large number and a list of the types of currency the bar accepted.

  Sensing Treir’s sincerity—and her ability to kick the tulaberries out of every one of them—the flood became an obedient stream.

  Quark watched the queue file in, a tiny smile on his face as he envisioned the guests as walking strips of latinum. Such a beautiful sight . . .

  “Wow! Look at them all!”

  The awe-filled voice came from behind his elbow: Shmenge.

  “What are you doing out here now?” Quark hissed softly from the corner of his mouth. “Isn’t there enough to do inside?”

  “I . . . I just wanted to watch them all come in. These are the movers and shakers of Ferengi society! All gathered in one place! It’s so . . . so . . . aspirational!”

  “I think you mean inspirational,” responded Quark. “I’ll admit, it is a pretty impressive sight.”

  “No,” Shmenge said. “I mean aspirational. I aspire to be just like them someday.”

  “Fat chance!” chortled Quark.

  “Especially that one. I mean, he’s a legend. He made being a liquidator seem so exciting!”

  Shmenge was pointing to a Ferengi who’d just joined the other guests in line. Quark followed the trajectory of Shmenge’s digit to focus on the man’s face.

  It was the face of the last person in the quadrant that he would have invited to the dedication.

  In a flash, Quark was in front of the newcomer, blocking his path toward the entrance. “Hold it right there,” he snarled. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The Ferengi gave him a quizzical look. “I’m attempting to gain admission to your establishment, Quark. This event is open to the public, right? The paying public, that is.”

  “Not your kind of public, Brunt,” Quark spat. “Not after all the trouble you’ve created for me over the years!”

  Brunt smiled calmly. “It was nothing personal, Quark. I was just doing my job. The fact that I enjoyed doing it is neither here nor there.”

  Quark glared. “Yes, well, you don’t have that job anymore, do you?”

  Brunt shrugged. “It’s true that I am no longer employed by the Ferengi Commerce Authority, but I’ve come to think of my separation from the FCA as a kind of blessing in disguise. Why, just look at me, Quark.” He gestured toward his conspicuously chic attire, accented, as always, by the large bar of latinum that he wore around his neck on a golden chain. “Does it look as if I’ve fallen upon hard times?”

  Quark continued to stare into Brunt’s eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of noticing his apparent affluence. “Oh, I’ve heard how you’re making your latinum these days, Mister Bounty Hunter. I’m surprised no one’s shot you in the back. Yet.”

  Brunt chuckled. “You’re so behind the times, Quark—but I know this hinterland station doesn’t get much in the way of current financial news reports. That was ages ago. You’re looking at a Magnus-level Entrepreneur.”

  Quark’s eyes briefly widened. “You’re a member of the Entrepreneurs’ Club?”

  Brunt cheerfully pulled out his membership card and held it in front of Quark’s nose. “A Magnus-level member,” he emphasized. “I take it you know what an exclusive club it is, and how difficult it is to gain admission at all, let alone rise t
o its higher ranks.”

  Quark’s head was spinning. What kind of universe was this when a reprehensible toad like Brunt could gain admission to the Ferengi Entrepreneurs’ Club? It was the most sought-after financial fellowship on Ferenginar.

  “Now, if you’ll just accept my payment—”

  Quark snapped out of his stupor. “I don’t care about any of that. I’m the proprietor of this bar and the Nagus-appointed ambassador to this embassy—and I don’t need to admit anyone whose presence, in my opinion, would have a toxic effect on the other guests.”

  “Toxic?” Brunt burst out laughing. “You really are out of touch, aren’t you?” He glanced into the bar, where several Ferengi who’d already gained admission were waving at Brunt.

  “Hurry up, Brunt—we’ve got a seat for you at our table!” shouted one.

  Quark felt a wave of nausea as he realized that it was Nilva, the chairman of Slug-o-Cola.

  That two-timing louse! After all I meant to him! He gave me a ring—well, he gave Lumba a ring, but a ring’s a ring. And now he’s all palsy-walsy with Brunt??

  Quark considered tossing Nilva out of the bar, but he knew what a stupid financial move that would be. He couldn’t afford to alienate Nilva and his buddies. And now that Brunt was one of them . . .

  “Well?” said Brunt, holding out the exorbitant, sign-specified entrance fee. “Do I get in?”

  “Yeah,” said Quark. Ignoring the proffered handful of strips, he grabbed the chain around Brunt’s neck and gave it a yank. The gold-pressed bar slid into his hand. “Special Entrepreneur’s fee,” he said, returning the broken chain—sans bar—to its startled owner.

  Then he turned and walked into the embassy, wordlessly handing the bar to Treir as he passed her.

  Shmenge, horrified at his boss’s behavior, raced over to Brunt. “I’m so sorry about that, Liquidator Brunt,” he groveled.

  “Former Liquidator Brunt,” Brunt corrected, staring down at the chain in his hand. “That was the first bar I ever confiscated,” he murmured. Suddenly he straightened and tossed the chain away. “Oh well. Plenty more where that came from.”

  “Can I . . . can I show you to your table?” Shmenge asked. “I just wanted to let you know how much I’ve admired you.”

  Brunt seemed to see Shmenge for the first time. “Have you, now? Well, I’m glad that Quark finally hired someone with common sense. Lead on.”

  Chapter 10

  “DABO!”

  M’Pella’s rich, resonant voice—usually loud enough to catch the attention of passersby in the Plaza—was nearly lost in the din of clinking glasses, laughing patrons, and general hubbub.

  Which boded well for the success of Quark’s latest attempt to become the wealthiest Ferengi in the quadrant. The place was filled to capacity.

  “What d’ya think?” O’Brien asked Ro as they stood together at the bar.

  Ro smiled. “I don’t know what to think. You guys have a lot more experience than I do witnessing these get-rich-quick schemes of his. People are buying drinks like crazy. They’re having a good time. What do you think, Odo?”

  The Changeling, “dressed”—if one could put it that way—in a loose-fitting civilian Bajoran-style tunic and pants, shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what I think. It doesn’t matter what any of us think. Quark’s schemes always end up the same way. He plans everything to the last detail, and things start out well. Really well. Then—boom.”

  O’Brien chuckled, but Ro, bemused, stared at Odo. “Boom?” she said.

  “Boom,” repeated Odo. “He forgets something.”

  “Or he gets overconfident, pushes something or someone a little too hard,” inserted O’Brien.

  “Or he simply gets careless, and suddenly one of the main supports holding the whole thing up gives way, and he hits bottom,” concluded Odo. “And there go all his profits.”

  “Well, that’s kind of sad,” commented Ro. “But why does that always happen?”

  “Because he’s Quark,” said O’Brien distractedly. Looking around the room, he spotted his wife in the vicinity of the platters of food. “Excuse me—I’m going to try some of those free appetizers.”

  Odo studied Ro’s suddenly pensive expression. “If it makes you feel any better,” he offered, “he usually winds up in the same place he started.”

  “That’s kind of sad too,” Ro said with a sigh.

  As the tower of souvenir glasses got lower and lower, Quark’s smile got bigger and bigger. Servers were running willy-nilly across the room, carrying drink orders to thirsty customers as fast as Hetik and Treir, positioned behind the bar, could pour them. The trays of special hors d’oeuvres had been emptied three times, and the replicators were operating at full capacity. His family members were behaving themselves—so far, at any rate—even Zek, who was seated at a large table between Bena and Kirayoshi O’Brien, making balloon animals from some of the party decorations.

  Everything was going GREAT! So what if Brunt was here, hanging out with all of those Entrepreneurs? Before the night was over, they’d be begging Quark to join their stuffy little club!

  One of the servers sprinted past Quark, carrying a huge tray full of cocktails. “Hey, hold up there!” Quark shouted, and the server froze in his tracks, centripetal force pushing the brimming glasses perilously close to the edge of the tray.

  “What have you got there?” Quark asked, recognizing the server as Issa, a new hire.

  Issa gulped nervously. “Stardrifters and Stardusters, sir,” he said, allowing Quark to inspect the contents.

  Quark retrieved one of each and looked at them closely, then frowned. “The ’Dusters are fine,” he said. “But the ’Drifters weren’t blended correctly. See the color?”

  Issa stared cluelessly at the green drink. “It looks tasty,” he offered.

  “Shows what you know. Take them back and tell Hetik to make them from the bottle behind the counter. Treir will show him.”

  Issa nodded, but he waited for Quark to replace the two drinks he was holding. And waited. Finally, Quark said, “What are you waiting for? Move!” And Issa ran back to the bar.

  Quark studied the Stardrifter again, then shrugged and gulped it down. It actually was pretty tasty, even if it wasn’t the right shade of green. But Quark took pride in his establishment’s mixological reputation. If I’m charging them for the best, I might as well serve them the best, he thought. Tonight, anyway.

  He was about to sample the Starduster when someone jostled his elbow. The slippery liquid splashed over his fingers and fell on his shoe.

  “Hey, Quark,” the offending patron shouted into his ear. “I’ve been looking for that scroll you promised. Where is it?”

  Quark turned to look at the man. He recognized him at once: Flam, a low-level functionary with the Bureau of Audit. Quark had been forced to deal with him after the old space station was destroyed. Flam had flagged Quark’s account of lost inventory and asked if he’d even bothered to take a shuttle through the field of debris after the explosion, searching for salvageable items.

  In turn, Quark had questioned how long Flam’s family had been in the rubbish collection business, since that was obviously an area he knew so well.

  Their relationship had gone downhill after that. As he dried his hand on a bar towel, Quark tried to remember if he’d put the man’s name on the guest list and, if so, what he could possibly have been thinking.

  Nevertheless, judging by the state of Flam’s sobriety—or lack thereof—Quark realized that he was a pretty good customer in any event.

  “Go get yourself another drink, Flam,” he said, “and I’ll move things along.”

  “Compliments of the housh?” Flam slurred.

  “Compliments of Brunt,” Quark responded. “Tell them to put it on his tab.”

  As Flam happily meandered over to the bar, Quark realized that
he was right about one thing: It was time to get the show started. There was an embassy to dedicate, a scroll to display, and additional profit to be made.

  I should get a medal for this, he thought. Displaying the Sacred Scroll in a mere saloon would have been a cheap stunt. But displaying it in an actual embassy that just happened to house a saloon—that was positively patriotic! The very definition of truth, justice, and the Ferengi way!

  But first things first. Let’s get this sucker dedicated. Looking around the crowded room, he finally spotted Grand Nagus Rom attempting to blend into a wall as a group of rather stern-looking businessmen closed in on him.

  “Gentlemen,” Quark said, stepping in front of his brother. “The Nagus has official duties to attend to.”

  Taking Rom by the arm, he walked him over to the platform that he’d carefully positioned out of the way of the gaming tables. “Get up there and knock ’em dead,” Quark said, giving his brother a pat on the back—and a little push. “You’re on.”

  Grand Nagus Rom stood on the tiny stage, nearly frozen in fear as he looked over the crowd. Most of them are frowning at me, he thought. He glanced toward Quark, who was gesturing for him to begin, impatient to get this disruption of the party over so he could start selling drinks again. Then Rom looked at Leeta. She was smiling. Her dark eyes were filled with pride. Leeta had complete faith in him, and hers was the only opinion he really cared about.

  Taking a deep breath, he began: “The rapid expansion of space exploration—”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd. They recognize it already, Rom thought, and he looked again toward Quark. The expression on his brother’s face said “I told you so.” He wanted to run, but then he thought again of Leeta, and of Bena, who was standing on her chair so she could see him. He thought of the fact that as Nagus he could pretty much do whatever he wanted—and what he wanted right now was to get through his speech, and then to get off the platform.

  “The rapid expansion of space exploration,” he started again, “has brought about expanded possibility for business—business of the political sort and business of the, um . . . business sort.”