Rules of Accusation

by Paula M. Block

  Why didn’t I remember to fix that sloppy phrase? he berated himself.

  “The outcry for trade in goods and services is universal. Literally. It calls out from across the Alpha Quadrant, the Gamma Quadrant, from initial Starfleet voyages into the Delta Quadrant. And it is our responsibility, as members of the Ferengi Chamber of Opportunity, to heed that outcry.”

  A smattering of applause interrupted his words—perhaps, Rom thought, from those who hadn’t been present the first time he’d read this speech. But as little as it was, it gave him the courage to go on.

  “It has been said,” he continued, “that our response to this universal deficiency fringes on ‘exploitation,’ as though that is a bad thing.” Rom paused as a small chorus of affirmation rose and subsided among his listeners. “But we do not exploit those in need. Rather, we seek out their needs and fulfill their desires through Ferengi Good Will. Yes, it is Good Will that we offer. Good Will, the most noble of our endeavors. Good Will, with which we reach into the hearts, into the minds, and into the political and financial institutions of the emerging marketplace. Is it any wonder that so much of that universal outcry is directed toward Ferenginar?”

  A spontaneous rush of applause—much larger than before—filled the room. Ferengi businessmen whistled and stomped their feet in agreement. Rom realized that he actually had them right where he—or, more accurately, Quark—wanted them. And his brother was grinning from lobe to lobe!

  “And so,” the Nagus continued, “the Ferengi Chamber of Opportunity dedicates this room, this Embassy of Good Will, as a gathering place for all who wish to contribute to the Ferengi Spirit.” Inspired by his own words, Rom raised his hands in the air. “I hereby proclaim this new and improved Ferengi Embassy at Bajor”—a hush filled the room as he paused: two, three, four—“OPEN.”

  The noise in the room rose to a cacophony as the movers and shakers of Ferengi society got to their feet and cheered. Even Brunt stood and applauded (although his smile seemed rather forced).

  Standing near the rapidly melting statue of Gint, Chief O’Brien looked at his wife and mouthed, “I need a drink.” And they headed back to the bar.

  Chapter 11

  Quark stepped into the refurbished employees’ lounge. He stared at the covered pedestal that took up a large portion of the tiny room. Inside was Gint’s scroll. All he had to do was show it. There was nothing complicated about the presentation—nothing, really, that required a humanoid to be in attendance. Just a few buttons to push. It was so simple that a Ferengi swamp lemur could operate it, so why not assign the task to Frool? But Rom had made it clear that someone trustworthy had to remain in the room with the precious artifact while outsiders were present. And since Rom would be occupied in the main room, mingling with the guests, Quark was the obvious choice.

  So, fine. He’d stay here while Rom fulfilled his nagal responsibilities. Tonight did offer him the best opportunity to urge the gathered VIFs to support his position on limiting the blood-flea market. As much as everyone liked a hearty bowl of flaked blood fleas, the current marketplace was overrun with them—literally. Leeta and Bena had come home from several shopping trips covered with itchy red bites from a prolific new strain of “free range” blood fleas.

  Quark took his position next to the pedestal. Here we go, he said to himself, and he flipped a switch on the control panel that Rom had installed. The switch activated a green light just outside, signaling Frool to send in the first group.

  Ten paying customers filed into the tiny room and looked around curiously. Quark was surprised to see that Chief O’Brien and his attractive wife, Keiko, were among their number. I guess he actually meant it when he told me he’d love to see the scroll, thought Quark. That’s kind of touching. Sappy, but touching.

  There was barely room for the ten of them (plus Quark), and as they tried to fit, they had to adjust their elbows to keep from poking their neighbors. I probably should have set this up in one of the larger pantries, Quark thought. Then he reminded himself of the 142nd Rule: There’s no profit in second-guessing.

  When the group appeared to be somewhat situated, Quark lowered the lights and activated a recording of patriotic music (the ever-popular “Anthem of Unfettered Profit” served this purpose nicely—and it was in the public domain). Then the music faded, and a recitation began:

  “It was over ten thousand years ago, in the early era of Ferengi prosperity, that Grand Nagus Gint, the very first Grand Nagus, took it upon himself to create the Rules of Acquisition: the precious guiding principles that form the basis of Ferengi business philosophy . . .”

  “. . . hand-lettered in dried liquid latinum . . .” it droned on.

  “. . . locked away from public view for generations . . .” and on.

  Quark noticed an elderly gentleman with large droopy ears—named Cack, if Quark remembered correctly—sagging a bit on his cane. Maybe I should shorten the presentation. Nah. Let them get their money’s worth.

  “And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for, the moment that you’ve paid for!”

  Quark pushed another button. The top of the pedestal slid away. An inner compartment rose with a hum, revealing the most beautiful illuminated scroll that anyone in the room had ever seen. Instantly, the viewers forgot their discomfort, and even their neighbors’ elbows, as they jostled to see the document before them.

  They oooohed and ahhhhhhed, and some of them wiped tears from their eyes. Then a new piece of music arose: the familiar strains of “Behold the Luster!,” the fanfare originally written for the opening of the remodeled Tower of Commerce five decades earlier. Unfortunately, because its composer was still alive, Quark had to pay for the theme’s use. He’d thought about using something else, but he knew that nothing would tug at heartstrings (not to mention purse strings) like “Behold the Luster!”

  As one, the audience leaned forward to see the artifact. The partially unfurled parchment featured ancient Ferengi hieroglyphs along with Gint’s flowing latinum scrawl. Quark had chosen to unroll the scroll to display his favorite Rule, the 19th: “Satisfaction is not guaranteed.”

  “I didn’t imagine it would be so beautiful,” Keiko whispered to her husband. “I mean, given the source . . .” Her voice trailed off as O’Brien put his finger to his lips.

  “Careful, love,” he said softly. “Big ears.”

  But if anyone had heard her, this apparently wasn’t a moment for responding to petty insults. Everyone seemed quite moved by the display. In fact, elderly Cack had risen to his full stature and was tottering forward to get a better look. “I want to touch it,” he murmured—just loud enough that Quark heard.

  “No, don’t,” he warned. “There’s a f—”

  Too late. The old Ferengi reached out to stroke the scroll with his gnarled fingers and connected with the force field that surrounded the pedestal. For a brief instant, a bluish flash of energy spread through his body, and his large droopy ears stood higher than they had for years.

  Then he was thrown backward—thankfully, into O’Brien’s arms. The chief carefully set the old gent back on his feet. “You all right?” he asked.

  Cack was staring upward, presumably at the heavens. “I . . . I think I saw Gint. He was smiling at me.”

  With that, the scroll descended into the pedestal, and the top slid neatly into place. The prerecorded voice blared: “This concludes our presentation. Souvenirs of your visit are available in the embassy. Please exit the room NOW.”

  “Well, at least he said ‘please,’ ” O’Brien observed as he and Keiko watched the group of Ferengi shuffle out of the room. When he was sure they were out of earshot, he turned to Quark and said, “I want a quick word.”

  “I don’t have time for a quick word,” the barkeep responded. “I’ve got to get the next group in. My financial future—”

  “Will be just fine, Quark,” said O’Brien. “I just wanted t
o tell you that you did a nice job with this. Keiko and I are very impressed.”

  Quark glanced at Keiko, who nodded and smiled reassuringly. He wasn’t quite sure how to respond. He’d been expecting a lecture and was truly taken off guard by the compliment. “Um . . . thanks,” he said at last. “Of course, it was Rom who made it possible. Even though it was my idea.”

  “One other thing,” O’Brien said.

  “I knew it,” Quark muttered under his breath.

  “You need to add a warning to that recording of yours about that force field. Or at least put a sign up. Most people will be smart enough to expect it, but a few . . .” He gestured toward the group that had left.

  “Okay,” Quark said, clearly aware of time passing. “Is that it?”

  O’Brien could take a hint. “Yeah,” he said. “Think it’s time for some more of those delicious hors d’oeuvres.” He winked at Keiko.

  “Oh . . . yes,” she said. “They’re quite . . . unique.” Her smile seemed a little strained, but Quark didn’t care. The less they ate, the more there’d be for the paying guests.

  Quark maneuvered the couple to the door and nudged them into the hallway. “Well, don’t forget to tell your friends,” he said, closing the door behind them.

  Then he went back to his station next to the pedestal and signaled Frool to send in the next group.

  Chapter 12

  By 2100 hours, the party had grown so loud that Ro almost missed Blackmer’s check-in call.

  “Activity has slowed to normal on the docking ring, Captain,” he reported. “From the noise I’m hearing on your end, I’d guess that it’s the opposite at Quark’s.”

  “You’ve got that right, Commander,” Ro responded. “I’ve never seen this place so crowded. It looks like Quark’s party is a success.”

  “Good for him,” Blackmer said, sounding a bit disingenuous. “Well, enjoy yourself. If you need me, I’ll be in the Hub.”

  “I won’t be here much longer, Jeff,” Ro said. “Can I bring you some appetizers?”

  “Not from what I’ve heard about them.”

  Ro chuckled and signed off.

  Wandering through the crowd, nodding at the guests she recognized, Ro found it hard to tune out the clamor of conversations swelling around her.

  “. . . not justifiable for random portfolios. You’re either dedicated to mixed beetles or you’re not. There’s no two ways about it.”

  “. . . significant premiums with increasing tendencies in . . .”

  “. . . variable index futures, offset by their collective restructuring after the meteor storm last year.”

  “. . . honestly, it’s always a cyclical market with toad bladders.”

  “. . . and finances don’t mix. Never have, never will.”

  “Kinda makes you glad you’re not in ‘business,’ doesn’t it, Captain?”

  Chief O’Brien’s lilting voice in the midst of all that investment babble was like a breath of fresh air. She turned to see him standing with his wife, Keiko, and smiled. She’d known them both since she served aboard the Enterprise, back in the days when she’d had the social skills of a razorcat.

  Ro laughed. “I would have been a complete failure in the private sector.”

  “Well, perhaps this particular private sector,” Keiko said charitably. “Not all businesses, nor businesspeople, are as, um, intense as the Ferengi.”

  “Intense is a good word for it,” Ro said, “although I think cutthroat would probably be more accurate! I suspect the odds of survival are a lot better in Starfleet.”

  “Well, I know I definitely prefer our rule book to theirs,” said O’Brien with a smile.

  “Speaking of that, have you seen the scroll yet?” Keiko asked.

  “No,” Ro answered. “I’m not sure that I’d be the most appreciative audience for it. I know most of the rules already, and I don’t think looking at the original version would make me like them any better!”

  “You really should look at it,” Keiko pressed. “The calligraphy is gorgeous. It’s not what the words say, it’s the beauty of the actual lettering on the scroll.”

  “It’s definitely worth a gander,” O’Brien added.

  “High praise,” said Ro. “Well, maybe I’ll take a peek.” They exchanged smiles, and she again meandered through the crowd, pausing when she spotted the line leading to the former employees’ lounge.

  Oh, why not, she decided, walking toward the front of the line. There, she found one of Quark’s employees—Fool? No, Frool—rather futilely attempting to maintain a queue of inebriated businessmen.

  “Stay in line,” he was shouting at the unruly men. “And stop pushing. It won’t get you in any faster.”

  “Who do you think you’re talking to?” growled one of them. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Are you in need of some assistance here?” Ro asked Frool, attempting to look stern. “I can bring in station security.”

  The crowd quieted down as she glared at them, and the line straightened imperceptibly. A couple of men looked annoyed, probably because a female had displayed the audacity to tell them what to do.

  “No, please, Captain—we don’t need any security here,” Frool said nervously. “These gentlemen just don’t understand that it’s a very tiny room and we can’t let in more than ten at a time. If they’d just be patient—”

  Suddenly a small green light activated next to his station.

  “Okay,” he shouted. “The next ten. And I mean TEN!” He opened the door, and as a group filed in, Ro slipped in among them, almost losing her balance as they pushed forward.

  Hmmm. Maybe he’s right—eleven is too many. Struggling to free herself from between two overly stout Ferengi, she suddenly popped out, like a cork from a wine bottle—and bumped into Quark, standing at his post in a corner.

  “Well, hello, Captain,” he said with a smile. “What a pleasant surprise! It’s nice of you to stop by. You’re going to enjoy this.” Lowering the lights, he reached down to push a button, and the air—what little there was of it in the tiny room—suddenly filled with music. Strange music that sounded almost “crunchy” to Ro’s Bajoran ears, with occasionally shifting tones that may have been a melody, or possibly a mistake. And then she heard a voice—Quark’s, Ro assumed, digitally manipulated to sound ancient and ethereal. It began a recitation:

  “It was over ten thousand years ago . . .”

  Still working behind the bar, Hetik fervently wished that he was back at the dabo table. He was mixing yet another Starduster when he noticed that the trays on the closest serving table were nearly empty. Again. Looking around for a spare pair of hands, he spotted the new server and called to him.

  “Hey, Issa!” he called out, pointing to the table. “We need food at station seven! Replicate thirty-five more parthas soufflés. And thirty-five Gramilian sand pea biscuits. And another fifty portions of pulverized snail steak pâté. And step on it!”

  Issa hustled over to the nearest replicator and stared at it, a concerned look on his face. He’d never operated a big commercial machine like this. It was imposing, intimidating even. The one in his moogie’s kitchen was tiny; it hung under a cabinet.

  He started giving the order. “Computer,” he said, “I need thirty-five parthas soufflés, and thirty-five Gramilian sand pea biscuits, and, uh, fifty pulverized snail steak pâté plates. And I need all of them right away!”

  The replicator made some random clicking sounds, and then . . . absolutely nothing happened. Issa decided to let it know he was still there. “Computer?” he said.

  The automated voice stated: “Attempting to comply.”

  Another second passed. Nothing.

  “Issa!” hollered Hetik. “Where’s that food?”

  “Coming, coming!” he hollered back.

  But nothing was happening.

 
Issa did what he often did at home, giving the machine a smack. “Come on, stupid!” he growled.

  The replicator made a series of curious beeps. Then it said, “Attempting to comply. Attempting to . . . to . . . to . . . com . . . com . . . com . . .”

  Issa heard a faint rumble as the machine’s lights began to blink rapidly. Oh, good. It’s working . . .

  And then a glutinous mixture of soggy biscuits, pâté, and soufflé gushed out of the pickup window, covering his feet with the stinky mess. A loud electronic squeal issued from the replicator’s control board, followed by a blinding flash. And suddenly—the lights throughout the embassy went dark.

  A partygoer cried out in fear: “It’s a raid!” That triggered several additional shouts. “What kinda raid?” “It’s the FCA!” “It’s the—” And then the lights flashed on again. Then off again. On again. And then they stayed on. The party guests looked around nervously, wondering what had just happened.

  Behind the bar, Hetik had only to look at Issa’s feet to know.

  Inside the “scroll room,” as Quark had come to think of it, Quark counted ten paying patrons—plus Ro, who, he suspected, hadn’t paid. Not that he minded her presence. I’ll take the fee out of Frool’s pay and tell him it’s for bad counting.

  As the anticipated oooohing and ahhhhhing kicked in, Quark happily noted that Ro seemed as impressed with the scroll as the Ferengi in the room. Well, all except for that Ferengi, he thought, grinding his teeth.

  There was Brunt, standing in the far corner, obviously not the least bit impressed, his lips twisted with disdain. There’s that toxic effect of his, Quark noted. He decided to ask Brunt to leave, but he hadn’t taken a step when the room suddenly plunged into darkness.

  Quark heard several gasps, then a slap, a loud “OWW!” and Ro’s voice snarling “Back off!”

  And just as suddenly, the lights flashed back on, strobed a bit, and settled back to normal. Quark looked around the room. Four of the Ferengi businessmen were cowering, curled up on the floor; one was trying to get out the door; three were holding on to each other; another—the one who’d been standing closest to Ro—was rubbing the side of his face; and Ro was swatting her communicator badge. “Commander Blackmer, report!” she said. As for Brunt . . .