Rules of Accusation

by Paula M. Block

  “Commander,” he asked, “where is the footage from the employees’ lounge?”

  Blackmer looked up, surprised. “You should have access to it right there.”

  Odo gestured at the monitor. “It’s not here.”

  Blackmer pushed his chair back, his body language radiating mild impatience. He quickly scrolled through the list on Odo’s screen. “It’s this one: Q-7-az//22.” He attempted to activate it—and instantly understood the problem.

  “Nothing’s there,” he said, staring at Odo. “The sensors must have been disconnected.”

  “Oh, that!” said Quark. “That was a special security refinement for the event.”

  Only a moment earlier he’d been attempting, and utterly failing, to keep his demeanor calm and matter-of-fact. But Odo and, admittedly, Blackmer were excellent interrogators. Sweating profusely, he pleaded, “Surely you can’t fault me for trying to keep the scroll safe, can you?”

  “A security refinement?” echoed Odo. “Is that what you call it? That’s interesting, isn’t it, Commander Blackmer?”

  Blackmer’s face was flushed. He looked annoyed. Very, very annoyed. “Interesting doesn’t cover it. Whatever you did blocked the station’s master surveillance system. Was that the intent, Quark?”

  Now Quark played the “shocked at the very notion” card. “What? No, of course not!” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Of course, I’m not the one who set it up. Rom did, so who knows what—”

  “Oh, no!” cried Rom, hustling back from the corridor that led to the employees’ lounge. “You’re not going to blame that on me. I told you when you told me to do it that it wasn’t a good idea to cut the room off from station security!”

  “You told him to cut off the sensors,” Blackmer confirmed, disgusted. He took a step closer to the Ferengi and leaned down to stare at him from above.

  Quark hemmed, hawed, and squeaked a bit, then finally said, “Okay, okay. Yes. I asked Rom to find a way to shield the lounge from outside monitoring. I didn’t want anyone to tap into it and look at the scroll without paying. People like Eisla Darvis from FNS were here. She’s the type who would have done something sneaky to boost her ratings.

  “But look, I didn’t do any permanent damage. See?” He grabbed Rom’s hand and retrieved a small black box the Nagus/former engineer had been holding. “Rom removed the block. The feed should be working fine now. No harm done.”

  “No harm done?” echoed Blackmer, his tone incredulous and, from Quark’s point of view, somewhat menacing. “You interfered with station security. Because of you, I’ll have to restructure the entire system so that no one can do it again. I should have you brought up on charges—and I would too, if you’d done damage to anyone other than yourself, and your . . . embassy. Luckily for you, it’s out of my hands, jurisdiction-wise. But I’m sure your own people will manage to think of something suitable to punish the two ‘gentlemen’ responsible for losing their precious scroll.”

  The color drained from Rom’s face, leaving him looking pastier than the remnants of the glop that had poured out of the industrial replicator. “Oh, Brother,” he moaned. “Now you’ve done it. When I get home, they’ll throw me into the Vault of Eternal Destitution. And you too!”

  “What makes you think I’m going back to Ferenginar?” snapped Quark. “I live here.”

  “That could change,” said Blackmer ominously.

  Quark’s head twisted around so quickly his neck cracked. “What’s that?” he said.

  “You forget, Quark,” explained Odo. “If Rom gets deposed as Nagus, this will no longer be the Ferengi Embassy at Bajor. It’ll just be Quark’s Bar, subject to Federation and Starfleet rules and regulations.”

  “And tenant rules,” added Blackmer. And without another word, he walked out of the bar.

  Odo stood there for a moment, enjoying the look on Quark’s face, then turned to follow Blackmer.

  “Wait!” shouted the barkeep. “What about the interviews? You—”

  “I’ll be back,” Odo said.

  He was smiling as he left the bar. It’s funny, he thought. I told myself there was nothing I missed about this place. But I was wrong. I didn’t realize how much I missed seeing Quark walk off the edge of a cliff.

  When he got to the stockade, he was surprised to see Blackmer looking calm and practically cheerful. At Odo’s questioning glance, Blackmer explained, “I’m used to him. He might make me furious, but he doesn’t get under my skin anymore. I just like to make him think that he does. Keeps me one step ahead of him.”

  Odo smiled. “Commander, I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  Blackmer laughed. “Oh, by the way, no ships left the station during the period in question. A few were scheduled to depart right after the party ended—the nightly Bajoran shuttle and several private Ferengi passenger vessels—but, of course, we stopped them as the captain ordered.”

  Odo nodded thoughtfully. “That means the thief didn’t manage to leave the station after he replaced the scroll with the hologram. He probably thought that he had plenty of time before the theft was discovered.”

  “He couldn’t have foreseen that the bar would have that power surge,” Blackmer said. “So he’s stuck here. All you have to do is find him in the next twenty-five hours.”

  Odo shrugged. “I’ve had tougher assignments.”

  “So tell me, Mister . . .”

  Eisla Darvis glanced down at her padd to check the Ferengi’s designation. She’d already questioned several of the businessmen after they’d streamed into the Replimat, and, to be honest, they all looked alike to her. This one, her notes reminded her, was a clothing magnate named—

  “. . . Sneat, exactly what atrocity was Ambassador Quark committing in that so-called ‘scroll room’?”

  “I wasn’t in that room when the trouble started,” the Ferengi replied. “Actually, when the lights went out, I was thinking of coming over here for some real food. Those party appetizers were terrible. But before they let me out of the embassy, I heard a hew-mon Starfleeter say that the scroll was a hologram! Can you imagine!”

  “I can imagine,” said Eisla. “No wonder he didn’t want to let me show it on my broadcast.”

  Sneat looked confused. He didn’t know anything about her broadcast. Still, he liked looking at this clothed fe-male, so he kept talking. “That’s when Quark started screaming that the real scroll had been stolen and that someone had put a hologram projector in its place. I don’t know who did what,” Sneat said. “But I’m pretty sure that the Council will chew into Quark like a clutch of razor-toothed gree-worms.”

  As the Ferengi wandered off, Eisla called her crew together. “I want to shoot a newsbreak about this on the Plaza. How fast can you get set up?”

  “Five minutes,” said her soundman. “Do you want to include a comment from Quark?”

  Eisla cast an icy glance toward the bar/embassy. “He won’t talk,” she sneered. “I can do it without him. We’ll run with the eyewitnesses.”

  Chapter 16

  A Terran midshipman, whose civilian freighter was undergoing maintenance at the Enterol VI facility, waved a finger at the viewscreen behind the bar and bellowed, “I told ya!” Turning to his cohort on the next stool, he shouted—despite being only inches apart—“That blue bastard couldn’t win an anbo-jytsu match even if he could see through his helmet.”

  Fred didn’t like Terrans. He could tolerate most of the ones who wore Starfleet uniforms; they, at least, seemed to have some social training. It was the unruly ones that bothered him, especially the ones who drank that unpalatable solution they referred to as “beer.” Fred didn’t like the taste of beer. Or the color of beer. And he particularly didn’t like having to determine if he should serve beer at nine degrees Celsius, or at thirteen degrees Celsius, or at “room temperature,” whatever that meant. As ne
ar as he could figure, every request was contingent on which part of their planet the Terran was from, and he wished they’d make up their minds and set a standard.

  These two Terrans, in particular, were full of beer, and Fred liked them about as much as he liked beer.

  “Fifty says he smashes the red one,” the other Terran shouted back. Reaching into a shoulder pouch, he grabbed a handful of transport payment chips and dropped them, loudly, on the bar.

  “NO BETTING,” Fred said sternly as he stepped in front of the two. Actually, he loved betting; foolish wagers by drunken travelers added greatly to his coffers. But these two had overstayed their welcome. All he wanted from them was their exit.

  “Oh, yeah?” the Terran on the left yelled at him. “Wad’ya gonna do about it?”

  That’s when the combatant in blue swung the sensor end of his staff within a quarter inch of his rival’s chin; the rival in red ducked by spinning to the right in time to flip his staff, cushion end up, into the blue man’s solar plexus; and Fred, in shiny silver carapace, grabbed the puny Terrans by his upper pincers and carried them, clawing and screaming, into the station’s corridor. Leaning over them, his antennae waving just above their noses, Fred calmly stated:

  “And don’t come back—beer breaths.”

  Back inside, Fred counted the payment chips the Terran had dropped. More than enough to cover their bar bill. At the other end of the bar, his best customer sat up, apparently awakened by the relative quiet of the room now that no one was shouting at the screen. Waving an empty glass at Fred, the big guy looked up at the red-and-blue blur of anbo-jytsu opponents crashing into each other.

  Suddenly the sports image was replaced by the interlocking polygon logo of the Federation News Service. “We interrupt this programming for an important newsbreak,” an anonymous voice said, and then the image changed again, to show a familiar-looking golden-follicled female.

  “This is Eisla Darvis,” the female said, “reporting for FNS from Space Station Deep Space 9, where the most valuable possession belonging to the people of Ferenginar was scheduled to go on display today, following the dedication of their new embassy here. But word has just reached this reporter”—and she paused for maximum dramatic effect—“that it is missing. Yes, the original hand-illustrated scroll containing the sacred Rules of Acquisition set down by Gint, the first Grand Nagus, over ten thousand years ago, has disappeared and is presumed stolen. The last persons known to have seen the scroll, the persons who appear to be responsible for its removal from the Ferengi Vaults of Opulence, are the current Grand Nagus, Rom”—a close-up image of Rom appeared onscreen—“and his brother, Quark, a bartender who also holds the title of ‘ambassador’ at the Ferengi Embassy.” A less than flattering portrait of Quark flashed onscreen—and remained for longer than seemed necessary in order to make a journalistic point. When the face of the reporter reappeared, she continued: “An investigation into the disappearance is now under way, and for now, that has triggered a suspension in travel to and from Deep Space 9. There is no word on when that suspension will be lifted.

  “As for the repercussions for the Nagus and his brother, time will tell.

  “This reporter, for one, will continue to seek the truth, and will continue to bring you updates on this evolving situation as details are confirmed. This is Eisla Darvis for FNS.”

  Fred mixed a martini during the newsbreak and placed it in front of his typically thirsty customer. But the big-headed guy didn’t touch it. He just sat, transfixed, staring at the screen. When the report ended, he continued staring, apparently lost in thought. What’s bothering him? Fred wondered, and he was just about to ask, when a group of uniformed Andorians stepped through the door. Greeting them with a hearty welcome, the Enteroli barkeep began taking drink orders.

  On the huge viewscreen behind the bar, the combatant in red knocked the blue fighter into the far corner of the arena with an unprecedented baln’jar twist. The action caught the customer’s eye and pulled him out of his reverie. As he picked up the fresh drink, he heard a growl of hunger from one of his stomachs. The big fellow considered his options for a moment, then ordered a basket of Aldebaran algae puffs.

  Chapter 17

  The line winding from Quark’s bar into the Plaza looked a lot like the line prior to the embassy dedication. Many of the same people were there.

  The mood, however, was very different.

  “I can’t believe I’m under investigation,” growled Phlebitz, a highly successful spice manufacturer. “I didn’t want to come to this party in the first place.”

  “It was horrible!” said Trapunto, a well-known fashion designer. “Watered-down drinks, crummy food, and a fake scroll! And did you see those servers’ outfits by Raldo?” Trapunto made a gagging sound. “The Chamber of Opportunity should give this place an ‘Avoid at All Costs’ rating!”

  “It already has one,” said Trapunto’s partner, Boucle, who was standing next to him in line. “In fact, I don’t think he’s ever gotten a thumbs-up from them.”

  “Hey, Quark—why don’t you send out one of the dabo girls with some drinks?” shouted a Ferengi near the end of the line. “It’s the least a considerate host might do.”

  Quark thrust his head out of the bar’s doorway to respond, “That’s still not funny, Chintz!”

  Cheap idiot, he thought as he stalked back over to the table where Odo was conducting his interviews. He arrived just in time to see Schlecht, a member of the Congress of Economic Advisors, get up from his chair and head for the Plaza. Schlecht gave Quark a dirty look as they passed each other.

  “What about him?” Quark queried Odo.

  “Solid alibi,” responded Odo.

  “A likely story,” Quark snorted in disgust. “Have you talked to Brunt yet?”

  “Not yet, but—”

  “I know that Brunt did it,” Quark raved. “He wormed his way into this private party, and then he wormed his way into the scroll room when I wasn’t looking and—”

  “The footage that I examined accounts for Brunt’s movements the entire evening,” Odo countered. “From the moment that you let him buy his way in until he entered the lounge along with Captain Ro. And you already were in there. So how, or when, do you think he swapped the real scroll for the holoprojector?”

  “That’s your job to establish,” Quark snapped. “I just know he’s guilty—so find a way to prove it.”

  “We’ll see,” the former constable said calmly as he glanced at his list of interviewees. “I’ve spent the last hour talking to the people I felt were most likely to have committed the theft. You’ll be pleased to know that my central criterion was, ‘Who truly wanted the privilege of destroying the ambassador?’ ” Odo smiled at Quark. “It was quite a long list. Unfortunately, while most of them would, indeed, like to see you destroyed, none of them seems to have had the initiative to plan the crime.” Looking toward the bar’s entrance, he noted, “Your favorite suspect is next in line.”

  Odo waved him forward, and Brunt approached the table with a confident smile. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” he said, seating himself in front of Odo. He completely ignored Quark’s presence.

  Quark opened his mouth to toss out an accusation—but a glance from Odo made him close it quickly.

  “All right, Brunt,” Odo began, “please give me an account of your recent activities.”

  “I arrived on the station at approximately 1830 hours, on Slug-o-Cola’s company shuttle,” he said. “You can ask Nilva to substantiate that. He traveled in his personal shuttle earlier in the day, but he arranged for me to take the company shuttle, in the seat normally reserved for Sluggo—who’s dead, you know,” Brunt said, giving Quark a pitying look. “Been dead for years, but they keep the seat available out of respect. And I”—his chest rose—“sat in it.”

  Quark gritted his teeth but said nothing.

  “W
hen I disembarked at Deep Space 9,” he continued, “I walked directly to this bar. In fact, the first people I spoke to were Quark and”—Brunt looked around and spotted someone standing just behind Quark, trying to look inconspicuous—“Shmenge! That delightfully intelligent young man over there.”

  Quark looked over his shoulder and glared at Shmenge, leaping to, what was for him, an obvious conclusion. “So that’s how you did it, eh, Brunt?” he snarled. “You had an accomplice!”

  “Utter nonsense,” Brunt scoffed. “I’m sure that our fine interrogator here will explain that you had young Mister Shmenge fully engaged in preparation for your meaningless party. But as long as we’re making up stories, how’s this? Let’s say that you talked our current dim-witted Nagus into bringing the scroll, and then, after he activated the force field, you slipped into the room, de-activated it, made an image of the open scroll with your clever little pocket holoprojector, and walked out with the item.

  “That probably was Quark’s plan all along,” Brunt said directly to Odo. “To steal the scroll and make it look like an outsider took it.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” Quark exploded.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Quark,” Odo spoke up, clearly enjoying the colorful exchange between the two adversaries. “Brunt’s tale is easily as feasible as yours.”

  “I—my—why—” Quark sputtered. Odo’s comment had so rattled him that he was unable to put together a coherent response.

  “May I go?” Brunt asked Odo.

  Odo nodded, and Brunt stood up. “Of course, you won’t be allowed to leave the station until my investigation has concluded,” the Changeling added.

  “That’s all right,” Brunt said with a smile. “I just want to find a palatable meal, since I know I won’t find one in here. Those appetizers, by the way”—he stopped to look at the flabbergasted Quark—“were truly terrible.”