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To Ira Steven Behr,
who once told us that he suspected his tombstone would read: “He did good things for the Ferengi.”

1

When the clado isn’t singing, it’s the most fearsome creature on Ferenginar.

The tiny amphibian—no bigger than the average Ferengi toe—loves the rain. The harder the downpour, the more the clado’s shrill and steady cry of “frip, frip, frip” fills the air. Ferengi children learn early to judge the intensity of a day’s downpour simply by listening to the frippiness they hear in counterpoint to the splatter of the raindrops. Which is why Clado’s Call, the game in which players guess whether it’s vinkling or merely melnering outside, remains a preschool favorite.

Children and adults alike are happiest when the moisture falls in a warm and steady wave. So are the clado, in fact. That’s when their song reaches its most soothing tones, prompting Ferengi spirits—and, more important, Ferengi portfolios—to rise precipitously. Weather seers, well aware of its effect on the market, call this level of rainfall frippering.

But on those occasional days when the rain slows to a mere widdling, the clado silently slithers into pools and puddles, or disappears into drainpipes. Which is bad for business. Fearsomely bad. Every intelligent Ferengi knows that the market suffers during those quiet spells, slowing as surprised businessmen stop working to stare about in distracted wonder. On his deathbed, Grand Nagus Gint addressed this phenomenon with his declaration, “When the clado isn’t fripping, you can hear your profits dipping.”

Quark knew that sound of silence all too well—but he couldn’t blame it on the rain, or the clado. Quark’s Public House, Café, Gaming Emporium, Holosuite Arcade, and Ferengi Embassy on Bajor was empty, abandoned by Deep Space 9’s residents and visitors alike. The only thing his overly sensitive ears could detect was the muffled hum of the new space station’s inner mechanisms. Within the bar itself, however, there was nary the clink of a slip nor the clunk of a strip nor the always satisfying plunk of a brick. Quark had enjoyed three heady days of bustling business following the new station’s dedication ceremony, bustling despite the regrettable assassination of the Federation president. (After all, people had to eat, didn’t they?) But then came “the miracle”—the reappearance of the wormhole, bigger and more beautiful than ever. In a matter of minutes every living being had withdrawn to the outer viewing bulkheads to stare in awe as the wormhole made periodic recursions. The bar had been fripless ever since.

Now only the station’s recreation areas, the park and playing fields, bustled. Spacefarers stood in groups, discussing trips they could, at long last, make into the Gamma Quadrant. Bajorans picnicked, held poetry readings, and gathered for spontaneous religious ceremonies. Vedics drew crowds as they addressed the Prophets, thanking them for the return of the Celestial Temple. Species of all stripes, and spots, and bumps played their favorite sports, from the hew-mon baseball first introduced years earlier by Station Commander Benjamin Sisko, to the challenging Yridian kaat-chag that species with thumbs find almost impossible to win. All of this in the reassuring glow of hope brought on by the wormhole. No one had the faintest urge to retreat into Quark’s to play tongo. Or dabo. Or to visit the holosuites. Or even to take advantage of the bar’s most basic function by ordering a drink.

Quark had complained, of course. “Your gods are putting me out of business,” he’d told Ro Laren, DS9’s current commander.

“Get a grip, Quark,” she’d replied. “People are happy. Your customers will return. Eventually.”

That was the word that frightened him. His overhead was too high to lay favorable odds on how long the bar could hold out against “eventually.”

Oh, for the sweet sound of a thirsty traveler asking for salvation . . .

“I need help.”

A customer! Quark dropped the shot glass he’d been endlessly polishing and spun around. “Of course, my good man. How may I—”

His voice trailed off as he got a look at the potato-shaped humanoid clothed in what appeared to be dun-colored, quilted furniture-moving pads.

Oh great. Just my luck.

The potato—or at least its two beady eyes—blinked as it studied Quark. “I am Derf,” it announced. “I need help.”

“Yes,” said Quark through gritted teeth. “I’m sure you do. What can I get you? Sir,” he added, although truthfully he wasn’t altogether sure if it was male or female. It’s so hard to tell with Pakleds.

“I need help,” said Derf.

“Got that,” Quark muttered. He wasn’t fond of Pakleds. They had a tendency to sit around taking up space, conning legitimate patrons into buying them drinks, and placing sucker bets at the tongo table in order to convince the other players that they were brain-dead dolts ripe for fleecing. Until, of course, that inevitable moment when they won the inflated latinum pot from the stunned players. Quark forced a smile. “What are you looking for? I’m running a special on Argelian ale—”

“No. I do not need ale. I need to go.” The Pakled lifted his eyebrows in what Quark took as an attempt to signal a deeper meaning.

The Ferengi looked to the left, in the direction the eyebrows seemed to point. “To the holosuites? Of course! I have just the program—”

“No,” interrupted Derf. “I do not need programs. I need to go.”

Quark noted that Derf had added a peculiar body twitch to the eyebrow fling, which, he realized, had targeted the closest refresher near the back of the bar. “You’re looking for . . . waste extraction?” he guessed.

The Pakled’s lips curled into a relieved smile. “Yes. I need to go. Now.”

“Well, you must have walked right past it,” said Quark, grabbing the portly alien’s thick arms and orienting him toward the bar’s exit. “You go out that door and turn right, then follow the corridor past the Replimat. You’ll find a nice public refresher there. Mine is for paying customers.”

“That is far. I need waste extraction now,” said Derf, his lumpy features drawing into a tightly puckered expression.

“Better hurry, then!” Quark gave him a solid shove in the right direction.

He breathed a sigh of relief as the Pakled waddled out the door. “He should have thought of that before he left his home planet,” he muttered. Not that he could blame Derf. His establishment was reputed to have the best-appointed ’freshers on Deep Space 9’s Plaza, well worth the wait.

The distraction gone, Quark lapsed back into his foul mood. “What I need right now,” he shouted, “is some fripping clado!” His sudden emotional eruption startled the handful of employees on the bar’s main floor. At Quark’s icy glance, however, they quickly resumed the menial tasks he’d assigned them.

Frool grabbed a padd and headed for storeroom C to do an inventory check. Hetik, the lone dabo boy, crouched under the gaming table, calling seemingly random but carefully chosen numbers to copper-coiffed M’Pella as she manipulated the delicate circuitry that propelled the dabo wheel. The subtle adjustments would allow the house to come out ahead more often than the law of averages strictly demanded—but just a little more. Enough to give Quark an edge but not enough to raise suspicions with the patrons, or with Lieutenant Commander Blackmer, the station’s head of security.

Truthfully, the way things were going, Quark didn’t need any employees on duty, but he realized the value of keeping up appearances. At least they’re staying busy, he thought. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s idle hands. Speaking of which— “What are you up to, Broik?” he called, noting the waiter hustling out of the kitchen.

“Just finished tidying up the food replicator, Boss,” Broik said.

“Well, seeing as it hasn’t been used for days, that couldn’t have taken very long,” Quark growled. “As long as you’re doing work that doesn’t need to be done, why don’t you straighten up the employee lounge?”

Broik got a peculiar look on his face. “Oh! The lounge! Uh . . .”

“Something wrong, Broik?” queried Quark.

“No, Boss. I’m on it.” The waiter palmed a door control in the hallway and stepped into the euphemistically named “employee lounge,” a space barely large enough to accommodate two exceedingly uncomfortable chairs.

Quark sighed. He hated relinquishing perfectly good storage space to a lounge, but he had no choice. It was one of the concessions he’d made years earlier following his idiot brother Rom’s successful strike against the bar on the old station. And even though that bar no longer existed, several of Quark’s employees from that bar—Broik, for example—were still working for the establishment and thus entitled to the same benefits. Or so that idiot brother—now Grand Nagus of Ferenginar—had patiently explained to Quark when the two went over the plans for the new station-based Ferengi Embassy.

“Uh, Boss?” Broik called, backing out of the lounge. “This guy’s been waiting to see you. He was hanging around when I opened up this morning, so I stuck him in the lounge. I, uh, I forgot to tell you.”

“What guy?”

An unfamiliar Ferengi face peered out of the doorway behind Broik. “Um, me, sir.”

Quark’s gaze zeroed in on the stranger. He was young, very young—barely grown into his lobes. And he was wearing an ill-fitting waiter’s uniform. “Who are you?” Quark snapped.

The youth straightened abruptly. “I’m . . . uh . . . Shmenge, sir. I’m new.”

Quark frowned. “I don’t remember hiring a new waiter. I certainly can’t afford one.”

Shmenge approached him hesitantly, his hands clasped before him in an appropriate posture of supplication. “No, sir. I’m not a new hire. My moogie—she’s an old friend of Ishka’s. She . . . she arranged for me to come here as an apprentice.”

Quark blinked. “An apprentice? To me?”

The concept boggled his mind. Not that apprenticeships were uncommon on Ferenginar. It was rumored that nearly a quarter of the liquidators at the Ferengi Commerce Authority these days were apprentices. It kept the overhead down. But no one had ever suggested, even in jest, that Quark held a prestigious enough vocation to attract an apprentice. Maybe having the bar proclaimed an embassy isn’t so bad after all, he thought.

“This . . . apprenticeship,” Quark said, mildly intrigued, “what’s the fee arrangement?”

Shmenge grinned. “My moogie paid seventy-nine strips of latinum to set it up.”

“Seventy-nine, eh? And who did your moogie pay?”

“Uh . . . Ishka. And Ishka was supposed to send you an introductory letter about me, going over the terms. She did, didn’t she?”

Quark removed a small padd from the inside pocket of his jacket. He seldom activated the padd’s communication function; no one ever wrote to him, so why bother?

Sure enough, there was something from his mother.

Quark sighed. You might have simply called, Mother. He put the padd back in his pocket without reading the communication. He’d look it over later. “Apparently she did,” he said. “What about the other fee?”

Shmenge’s brow furrowed. “Other fee?”

“My fee, for going to all the trouble of letting you work for me . . . while you learn everything there is to know about becoming a preeminent entrepreneur.”

“Oh!” Shmenge rooted around in his pockets. “That’s right! Moogie did say something about that. But she didn’t know how much it would be, so she gave me this.” His expression brightened as he located the credit chip he’d been looking for. He handed it to Quark.

Quark blew a few particles of lint off of the chip and inserted it into the card transactor he kept behind the counter. “Let’s say one bar to start with,” Quark said while studying the balance. “That will cover your expenses for a few weeks.” He initiated the transaction. “You know, things like room and board, uniform cleaning and repair. And I’ll put a second bar on reserve for . . . hmmm, unanticipated opportunities.” He smiled and returned the chip to Shmenge.

“Thank you, sir!” said the apprentice. “I’m sure I’ll make you proud.”

Quark studied him briefly. “Shmenge, I’m going to impart lesson number one. It’s inspired by an old hew-mon expression. ‘If there’s time to lean, there’s time to clean!’ ” He grabbed a cloth from behind the counter and threw it at his charge. “Now get busy!”

“Still running the place like a despot, eh, Quark?” a voice called from across the room.

“Not a despot, a simple businessman,” Quark responded matter-of-factly, still watching his new apprentice hustle toward the far end of the bar. Then he turned toward the entrance. A satisfied smirk of randy anticipation spread across his face as he recognized the female walking toward him. She was lovely and lithe, her body apparently poured into her skintight jumpsuit. The metallic fabric sparkled, backlit by the glow of the Plaza beyond.

“Rionoj,” Quark said, his smirk shifting into a genuine smile. “How nice to see your purple tresses after all these years.”

“I doubt that it’s my tresses you were looking at, Quark,” the Boslic freighter captain said, reaching out with a long, delicate finger to stroke the edge of his left lobe. “We have business to discuss. I believe you once told me you were in the market for entertainment. Well, I have something to fulfill your wildest dreams.” With an almost imperceptible, yet very effective level of pressure to Quark’s lobe, she added, “Why don’t you mix me a Black Hole, and we’ll discuss it.”

Quivering slightly, Quark found a bottle of opaque liquid and poured it into a tapered glass. “Still transporting . . . questionable goods?” he asked.

“No,” Rionoj answered after taking a sip of the pungent drink. Leaning gently over the bar and reaching again for his lobe—the other one this time—she said, “I’ve moved on to a more interesting, creative profession.”

Quark made a feeble attempt to respond. “And, uh, what would that be?”

“All in good time,” she answered. “I hear the shape shifter isn’t around anymore.”

“Odo . . . uh . . . he comes and goes. But he isn’t here now.”

“Not that it matters,” Rionoj purred. “What I have for you”—she removed her fingers from his lobe, then reached into a pouch and produced an isolinear optical chip—“is perfectly legal.”

“Wha-what is it?” Quark asked, standing straighter as he forced aside the pleasant warmth fogging his brain.

“A holosuite program. It’s exactly what you need”—she turned to swing her arm across their view of the empty establishment—“to remedy your dying business.”

“I’ve got holosuite programs,” Quark said. “What’s so special about this one?”

“The price,” Rionoj said, breaking into a smile. “It’ll only cost you ten bars of latinum.”

“Ten bars! That’s ridiculous,” the fully recovered Ferengi stated. “You once sold me a whole shipload of salvage for three—and even today I can buy a crateful of programs for two.”

“True,” she said, “but this isn’t salvage. And nothing in that crate would compare to it.” Rionoj poured the last of the Black Hole down her throat. Then she laid the chip next to the empty glass and turned to walk away. “This is going to say more than I ever could. Take a look at it. I guarantee that you’ll want it. I’ll be back to continue our conversation tomorrow.”

Quark sighed as he watched her sashay into the Plaza. Then he looked down at the chip. Whatever was on it couldn’t possibly be worth ten bars of latinum. But the negotiation promised to be very enjoyable . . .

2

“All right, everybody out!” Quark barked at his employees.

During boom times, he kept his establishment open around the twenty-six-hour clock; one didn’t need to be a Ferengi to know that sweet profits come from foolish bets made in the middle of the night.

Under current circumstances, however, it was clear that staying open in case a customer might come in was the foolish bet.

No one on the staff protested. Their contracts clearly addressed the arduous protocol related to disagreeing with the boss. No one was in the mood to go through that over a few hours of lost pay. Out they went.

With a resigned sigh, Quark lowered the lights on the main floor, palmed the isolinear chip, and trod the stairs to Holosuite 3.

All right, Rionoj, let’s see what you’ve brought me. He briefly scrutinized the title. Lust’s Latinum Lost. Well, the subject matter sounded intriguing, at any rate. He pushed the chip into the companel’s slot. “Computer, run program,” he instructed.

“Program ready,” responded the computer.

The holosuite door opened, and as Quark entered he was struck—

—by the heady aroma of his homeworld. The woodlands of Ferenginar surrounded him, glistening through a veil of intense frippering. Mold, crusted in yeast and laden with fungi, encased the treetops, an enticing salad of culinary delight. Quark plucked a mushroom and tossed it into his mouth. Delicious. Rows of marrow trees drew his attention to a gentle river below . . .

He gasped. That . . . that’s not water. It’s latinum! Liquid latinum. The river was filled with it, an amber-toned liquid, thick as molasses, the most valuable commodity on all of Ferenginar. He stared, awestruck, as raindrops bounced off the surface of the viscous liquid and flowed to the side, unable to penetrate and dilute the stream.

Quark took a step forward, watching the glimmering liquid ooze slowly over a rocky bed. A sensual shudder ran through him. Incredible. Incredible! He knew it was holosuite latinum, a mere illusion, yet he felt an irrational desire to step into it, to fall into it, to douse himself with it, to drink and swim and flail in it.

He was overwhelmingly aroused. This indescribably beautiful river of latinum flowed in front of him, more enticing than any female.

Or so he thought.

“Hello, Shmun,” came a female voice, stopping Quark in his tracks. The voice was familiar. He’d heard it before in this very room. “When we last met, you told me I should seek my own fortune. What do you think of my outcome?”

Quark turned to see a Vulcan woman wearing the vestments of a high priestess: a flowing red robe with a cream-colored tabard and hood. The garments were heavy with rain but did not seem to encumber her. He gasped. Over the years, he’d grown used to seeing clothed females on the station. If he hadn’t, he’d never have been able to wait on them. But this—this—affected him in a primal way. The rain-sodden clothing clung to the Vulcan’s curves like a clutch of hungry gree-worms, inflaming his aching lobes! And he recognized this angel!

“T’lana!” he gasped.

Here she was, the insatiable Vulcan Love Slave he’d salivated over since he’d been a mere adolescent and read about her in the story written (probably) by Iskel the Unimpressed. And she looked just as she had in the three best-selling holosuite programs inspired by that now classic novel. Except . . . somehow . . . better. Quark couldn’t tell if this was because she was standing before him in the flesh—so to speak—or if he was seeing the work of a much more talented programmer than the one who’d created those earlier installments. Oh, he’d enjoyed Vulcan Love Slave II: The Revenge and Vulcan Love Slave III: Shmun’s New Hope—but neither of them had affected him this way. Her sallow flesh and the satiny lines of that river were irresistible! Quark felt his lobes lift. T’lana and a river of latinum. What could be better?

Pull yourself together, he thought as he attempted to gather his senses. He glanced down, noting that the computer had changed his clothing; he was now garbed in rustic woodland attire more suitable to the surroundings. Oh, that’s right! I play this as Shmun. He cleared his throat. “I was just about to enjoy a closer look at the river,” he said, sounding foolish even to himself.

“Why don’t we bring a bit of the river to you instead?” T’lana said, those sweet Vulcan lips as succulent as tube grub larvae, curving upward in a tantalizing smile.

We?

As if on cue, two similarly clad females, an Andorian and an Orion, stepped from behind the trees. They walked directly to Quark and laid their hands on his shoulders, lowering him onto a lounge formed from the fungi on the forest floor. They knelt at either side of him, blue fingers gently but firmly on his left lobe, green fingers clutching his right, lightly—but effectively—restraining him. But then, why would he want to go elsewhere at a moment like this? Quark sighed. “I’m pluff mud in your hands, ladies.” Now T’lana stepped over him, straddling his knees with her long, slender legs. She reached down, loosening the bodice of Shmun’s leather jerkin, exposing Quark’s hairless chest.

“Oh, my,” whispered Quark as the frippering droplets flowed onto his overheated skin.

With a wicked smile, T’lana raised a brick of gold-pressed latinum high over Quark’s near prostrate form. Her two friends gently tightened their grip on his lobes, triggering flashes of pleasure throughout his body. Then T’lana pulled a tiny plug from the end of the brick. As she tilted the brick, a rivulet of latinum appeared, a shiny pearl at first, then a slow flow, barely fluid, elongating, undulating, a stretching, molten currency creeping closer and closer at an agonizing pace, inching toward his chest. Quark allowed himself to become one with the rain, the fingers, T’lana’s knees leaning along his ribs, his eyes riveted on the latinum as it flowed, closer, almost touching him, almost about to envelop him. Hyperventilating, Quark wondered if he would pass out in anticipation before the liquid reached . . .

Suddenly, without warning, the Ferengi found himself lying on the cold, hard floor of a black room encircled by a grid of green lines. The latinum, the females, the fungi, and the forest had disappeared.

“No!” he shrieked. “Computer! Computer! Resume program!”

“Unable to comply. The program is complete.”

“What? It can’t be. Check again.”

“The program is complete.”

Quark closed his eyes in an attempt to bring back the memory of what he’d been feeling only a moment before. But it wasn’t the same.

All he could feel was agony.

3

Quark stumbled from the holosuite, his hormone-saturated brain so distracted by what he’d just experienced—and hadn’t experienced—that he forgot he’d already turned the lights down in the bar. And that he should take the steps one at a time. The station’s artificial gravity, on the other hand, knew exactly what to do, and the Ferengi suddenly found himself fumbling, flying, falling, screaming for his life as his hands windmilled about, searching for something to postpone the inevitable collision with the main floor. He managed to latch on to the railing halfway through his descent; momentum, however, kept him moving, his sweaty hand slip-sliding down the rail as his rump hit most of the stairs. Eventually he found himself sprawled over the bottom steps, bruised, battered, and possibly sprained. Taking a moment to allow his heartbeat to slow from triple time to something closer to normal, he struggled to his feet and staggered to his private office.

I should have known, he fumed as he dropped into the chair behind his desk. We didn’t settle on terms. Of course she wouldn’t trust me with more than a taste of the goods. I’ve got to lock this in.

Activating his communications console, Quark ordered, “Computer, connect me with Captain Rionoj.”

Without even a millisecond’s pause, the computer responded, “Captain Rionoj is not on the station.”

Quark drummed his fingers impatiently. “Of course she’s on the station. Computer, ignore any ‘Do not disturb’ protocol she may have set. I don’t care if she’s getting her beauty sleep. This is an emergency. Wake her up.”

“Captain Rionoj is not on the station.”

“What are you talking about?” Quark questioned, his voice growing shrill. “Where is she?”

“Insufficient data,” the female voice responded. “Please restate the question.”

She’s probably sleeping on her ship. Sure, that’s it. “Computer, patch me through to the Furyk.”

“The Boslic freighter Furyk has departed from the station.”

Quark’s jaw dropped. “She . . . she left? Why would she—” He cut himself off and posed a question the computer would be more likely to answer. “Computer, did Captain Rionoj file a flight plan when her ship left the station?”

“Flight plans are not accessible by civilians. Please contact station personnel for further assistance.”

“I am station personnel! I am the Ferengi ambassador!” he spat.

“Flight plans are not accessible by the Ferengi ambassador.”

Quark cursed. The computer, unfamiliar with the terminology, had the good sense not to respond.

Get ahold of yourself, man. Think this through. He took a deep breath and gathered his wits. When he next spoke, his voice was calm, measured. “Computer, is Captain Ro on duty?”

“Affirmative. Captain Ro is on duty.”

“Could you please inform Captain Ro that the Ferengi ambassador has a matter of dire urgency that he needs to discuss with her?”

There was a pause, and then Ro’s no-nonsense voice addressed him from the companel. “What is it, Quark?”

No image. That meant she didn’t have time or inclination for chitchat. “I need a favor. A very small favor,” he added quickly.

“I’ve heard that before. What is it?”

“Did the Furyk file a flight plan? I have some unfinished business with the captain.”

“I’ll bet,” said Ro. “Let’s see. Your Captain Rionoj indicated that she was en route to—hmm, interesting—the Gavara system.”

“Gavara? But . . . but that’s in the Gamma Quadrant.” Before he allowed panic to set in, Quark reminded himself that the Boslic had never filed an accurate flight plan in all the years he’d known her. I need more information, he thought. “Did she enter the wormhole?”

“Nope. The wormhole hasn’t opened since the freighter left the station.”

Quark wondered if he ought to push his luck. His relationship with Ro at the moment wasn’t bad—but it wasn’t exactly good either. I need to work on that . . . when I’m not trying to salvage my financial future. “Umm, and when exactly was that?”

Ro sighed. “About an hour ago. You should still be able to catch her on subspace—assuming you know her frequency.”

He did, but it didn’t mean Rionoj was immediately inclined to answer. After what seemed an eternity, the Boslic responded to his frantic hails. “Quark, what a nice surprise,” she said, her lovely features filling the small screen on his panel. “I’m sorry. I was . . . unexpectedly called away. Pressing business,” she said with an apologetic shrug. “Did you enjoy the product?”

“What little of it there was seemed . . . satisfactory,” he responded in a carefully neutral tone. “I’m willing to discuss acquiring the rest of it.”

“Unfortunately, we’ll have to postpone our negotiation until I return.”

“We could do it right now,” the Ferengi said, a little too eagerly. “I mean, as long as we’re in contact anyway. Then you could simply forward the material. You’re still close enough to—”

“That won’t be possible,” she interrupted, and then, with a sly tilt of her head, she added, “But I’m so happy to hear that you’re interested. Oh, by the way, that price I quoted? That was yesterday’s price. It may be a bit more by the time I get back.”

“Yesterday’s—what?” Quark sputtered. But the Boslic captain’s face had disappeared from the monitor. The channel was closed.

Quark uttered a louder, far more profound curse.

4

Some engineers found squeezing into the matter-assembly field manipulator in the cargo bay’s industrial replicator intimidating, even claustrophobic. Not so DS9’s assistant chief engineer. Nog had tried, futilely, to explain to Jan Collins, one of the female engineers on Beta Shift, that he found DS9’s confined spaces “homey.” This revelation had earned Nog a peculiar look from Jan, but he’d shrugged it off. He’d learned from his longtime friendship with Jake Sisko that he couldn’t expect everyone to share his point of view. Nog had grown up on the old space station, exploring every nook and cranny he was cleared for access to (and many that he wasn’t but managed to find his way into anyway). Now, as authorized station personnel, his compact Ferengi physique made him the perfect candidate for assignments that required finesse in tight places. With his trusty tool kit and all the isolinear components within arm’s reach, he often felt like the master of his own tiny universe.

Except for the occasional interruption.

Like right now. Dissonant rumbling came from outside the replicator—voices, he realized by the rise and fall in pitch—but he tried to ignore the noise. Chief O’Brien was out there fine-tuning the matrix-beam emitter, and Nog knew that if something required his participation, O’Brien would alert him via his combadge. Nevertheless, after a while, his keen ears began to pick out sound patterns that translated into words.

“. . . Just need to talk to him . . .”

“. . . forget it . . . on duty . . . can wait till . . .”

“. . . urgent embassy business!”

Nog rolled his eyes and continued his calibrations. I’m not going out there. I’m not falling for that “urgent embassy business” schlarval. He’s probably in trouble with Commander Blackmer again—

Then he heard his combadge beep, followed by the strained voice of the station’s chief engineer. “Nog, get out here.”

He winced, not for the first time wishing that his uncle had remained on Bajor. Gathering up his tools, Nog extricated himself from the innards of the machine and got to his feet, idly rubbing the hip that connected to his artificial leg. He smiled tentatively at O’Brien. “Almost done in there, Chief.”

O’Brien was flushed, his fleshy features puckered with irritation. “Get rid of him, Nog,” he said, jerking a thumb at the Ferengi ambassador. “Five minutes.”

“Aye.” Nog turned to Quark. “Let’s step over here, Uncle,” he said, moving toward the other side of the bay.

He was about to launch into the usual litany about leaving him alone while he was on duty when Quark waved an isolinear chip in his face. “I need to know who made this!” the barkeep said. “It could represent the salvation of the Ferengi race!”

Nog eyed the chip dubiously. “The entire race?”

Quark smiled nervously. “Okay, well, maybe just me. But I do represent the entire Ferengi race in this region of space.”

Nog shook his head in disapproval and took the chip. “What is it that couldn’t wait three hours till I finished my shift?”

Quark’s eyes glinted with avarice. “It’s the most amazing program in the quadrant,” he blurted out. He quickly looked around to make sure no one could overhear their conversation, relieved that O’Brien—the only other occupant of the large room—was preoccupied with the replicator’s emitter. “It’s a new sequel to Vulcan Love Slave,” he confided. “Well, just a piece of it. A very tantalizing piece of it. I want to find a copy of the whole thing.”

Nog turned the chip over in his palm. “Well, who’d you get this piece from?”

“A conniving temptress who I’m pretty sure is out looking for a better deal.”

Nog grinned. “Oh, Rionoj is back?”

Quark waved his hand in the air, dismissing that part of the conversation. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t let this opportunity slip out of my hands, Nog! I’m thinking that there must be another copy of the whole program out there—I mean, where did she get it from?”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“You know all about technology,” Quark continued. “You know how to find those secret codes that manufacturers put in their programs.”

“The digimarks.”

Quark nodded. “Yeah, that. This is just a little piece of a holonovel, but I figure it probably has the digimark on it. If you can tell me who made this, I can track him down and work out a deal for exclusive distribution rights.”

“Not a bad idea,” Nog said, pulling a small chip reader from his tool kit. It wouldn’t show him the contents of the program (which was too bad, considering the way his uncle was salivating over it), but theoretically it would show him the manufacturer. He placed the chip into the device and activated the scanner. Then he did it again. And then a third time. “That’s weird.”

“What? What’s weird?” Quark squeaked.

“There’s no digimark on this. That’s pretty unusual. Publishers usually encode their programs at every stage so they can control their property. But all that shows up on this is the title, Lust’s Latinum Lost.” He popped the program out of his reader and examined the chip itself. “This thing plays in the holosuite?”

Quark sighed and flicked one of his lobes. “Oh, yes, it certainly does.” His expression changed to one of dismay. “So . . . you can’t find any clues on it at all?”

“Sorry,” Nog said, handing the chip back to Quark. “Say, who issued the earlier holonovels?”

“Broht and Forrester. Big publisher. Done a lot of business with them. Vulcan Love Slave is their most profitable franchise. But I have to say, this sample looks a lot more classy than any of the previous ones.”

“Well, maybe they got a new producer and they’re publishing another sequel. And Rionoj somehow managed to get hold of an advance copy.”

Quark’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, that would be like her. And if anyone knows how to remove a digimark, it’s her. Or one of her cronies.” The Ferengi ambassador brightened considerably. “Thank you, Nog!”

Quark scurried toward the exit, waving at O’Brien en route. “Thanks, Chief! Stop in sometime for an ale!”

O’Brien shook his head as Nog walked toward him. “Never mind the ale,” he muttered. “Just get that damn dartboard.” He glanced at the young Ferengi. “Did he say something about Broht ’n’ Forrester?”

Nog nodded.

“They make the Dixon Hill holonovels, don’t they? Captain Picard loved those. He used to invite members of the crew to play different roles.” He smiled, and for a moment O’Brien seemed lost in a pleasant memory from the past. Then his eyes refocused on Nog and he scowled. “What the hell are you standing around for? We’ve got a job to finish.”

“On it!”

And Nog dived back into his safe, homey hidey-hole.

5

“Ardon Broht’s office.”

Quark suppressed a shudder as the static on his screen coalesced into the image of a neatly dressed humanoid with a fleshy pink face and a disgustingly transparent skull.

I’ll never get used to talking to Gallamites, the Ferengi thought. He plastered on a polite, business-as-usual smile. “Oh, hi there, Cordray. Long time . . . no see!”

“Quark!” The Gallamite’s prim expression blossomed into a toothy grin. “I was just thinking about you!” A synapse fired an electrical charge from deep inside his cortex, backing up his statement. “We’ve finalized our catalog of new releases, and seeing as you’re one of our best customers—”

“Great! Great! That’s what I was calling you about. I . . . uh . . . I hear you have a new sequel to Vulcan Love Slave. I’d love to hear the details.”

“A new sequel?” Cordray’s face wrinkled into apparent confusion as the currents in his brain danced briefly and then went dark. “No. There’s nothing like that on the schedule. Nothing past VLS Volume Three.”

“Are you sure? I thought I heard something—”

The Gallamite shook his head, giving Quark a nice view of cerebral fluid sloshing against the inside of Cordray’s braincase. “I haven’t heard a thing about a new sequel, and obviously it would be very high profile.” His hemispheres throbbed briefly. “Still, I suppose it could be at the negotiation stage. You know Mister Broht—he keeps the big projects confidential until he gets every legal terabyte in the contract locked up.”

“A wise man,” observed Quark. “Listen, do you think it’d be possible for me to talk to him? I might be interested in locking up the distribution rights—assuming the project comes to fruition, of course. It would be worth his while.”

Cordray responded with another smile and an accompanying flash of neurons. “I wish I could help, Quark, but Mister Broht is off-planet. He’s attending Holo-Palooza on Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet.”

“Holo . . . what?”

Cordray chuckled. “Odd name, isn’t it? I think some Terran came up with it a century ago and it stuck. Terrans!” He rolled his eyes. “It’s the annual holonovel sales conference,” he explained. “Quite a big deal. Mister Broht will be gone all week. Should I have him contact you when he gets back?”

“No,” Quark murmured, his mind working quickly, albeit less obviously than the Gallamite’s. “I have a better idea.”

Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet? Quark frowned as he exited his office and hustled down the long corridor to the bar. That’s a curious place to announce the most anticipated holonovel of the decade. Once one of the most popular vacation spots in the Alpha Quadrant, the aging resort had fallen out of favor with discriminating pleasure seekers as more capital-rich pleasure worlds like Risa cornered the market.

Then came the Borg incursion of 2381. With lovely Risa one of many worlds devastated in the war, Wrigley clearly had an opportunity for a comeback. But how much could they have upgraded in a few short years?

He shrugged. He’d find out when he got there. It’s just too bad, he thought, that my idiot brother isn’t working for me anymore, because I need a flunky to carry my luggage. Maybe Nog . . . ?

But no. Lieutenant Commander Nog was otherwise occupied these days. Well, fine. Who needed him?

Quark drummed his fingers on the surface of the bar as he studied his employees, all still in “keep busy” mode. He hated to travel alone. Then, abruptly, he began to smile. Let’s find out whether Ishka’s friend educated her offspring in the virtues of sucking up to the boss.

“Shmenge,” he called, effectively snapping the young Ferengi to attention. “Come here.”

Shmenge practically flew to the bar. “Yes, sir,” he said, straightening his jacket.

“I have a lucrative business opportunity for you to contemplate. How would you like to accompany me to a conference on Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet?”

“Accompany . . . you?” Shmenge gasped. “I . . . Of course! It would be my pleasure, Mister Quark!” He was almost beside himself with excitement.

“Just so you understand, Shmenge, this is not a pleasure trip,” Quark said. “It’s a business trip for me and, uh, an educational field trip for you.”

Shmenge nodded his head eagerly. “Educational. Okay. Good! I’m ready! When are we going?”

At the far end of the bar, Broik and Frool were observing this exchange with obvious amusement; they’d worked for Quark long enough to know when the boss was working an angle. Quark shot them a daggerlike glare. “Did you need something, gentlemen?”

Broik shook his head and transferred his attention to a stack of drink coasters that needed straightening. Frool quietly drifted toward the tongo table, dishrag in hand, although what he was going to do with it over there was unclear.

“As I was saying,” Quark said, “seeing as this is part of your training, you’ll need to reimburse the bar for your time away from the job, plus cover your own expenses. And maybe a few . . . miscellaneous incidentals.” Smenge’s look of excitement dulled noticeably at Quark’s comments but brightened again at the ambassador’s next statement: “And by the time we come back, you’ll be well on the road to becoming a successful businessman!”

At this point, Quark extended his hand toward the lad, palm upward. Shmenge started to reach for it, fully intending to pump it gratefully, then froze in mid-gesture at Quark’s darkening expression. A look of enlightenment blossomed in his eyes, and he dug into his pocket to pull out his credit chip. He set it tentatively on Quark’s palm.

“You’re a quick study,” Quark said with a smile, popping the chip into the card transactor.

There was much to do. It didn’t take more than a nanosecond for Quark to realize that leaving custody of the bar to Hetik while he was away would be tantamount to declaring bankruptcy. He put in a call to Treir, the lovely and (admittedly) capable Orion who managed his bar on Bajor, and politely requested her presence on the station for a few days. He then spent the next twenty minutes debating the “particulars” with her, a debate that he didn’t exactly lose, but certainly didn’t win.

Then there was the question of transportation. He pressed a familiar toggle on his companel.

“Ro,” he said, adopting his most glowing smile when the station’s commander appeared on the screen. “You’re certainly looking lovely this evening.”

“What is it, Quark?” she said, barely glancing up from the padd she was studying.

“My duties as ambassador dictate that I make an urgent trip away from the station,” he began, his face twisting into a convincing look of distress. “I’ll be gone for a few days, maybe a week. And I, uh, I just wanted you to know how much I’m going to miss you.”

Ro lifted her gaze from the padd and met his eyes. “Well,” she said, pausing briefly to parse the sentiment in his statement, “that’s sweet, Quark. But I’m not going to lend you a runabout.”

“I wasn’t going to ask—” he began to protest and then stopped when he saw the twinkle in her dark eyes. “Okay, maybe I was. It was worth a try. You know me too well.” Although not quite as well as I wish. “I was just hoping to save the nagus some money, but—you’re right. I’ll rent a shuttle from that new place on the Plaza and charge it to the embassy. After all, if the bar goes under, the embassy goes under. And that would be bad for all of us, right?”

“Undoubtedly,” she said with a straight face, although Quark sensed she was trying not to smile. “I appreciate your letting me know about your urgent trip, Ambassador Quark. I don’t know how we’ll manage without you, but we’ll try to muddle through.” Her hand moved toward a control on her companel. “Oh—and I’ll miss you too,” she said, just before the screen went dark.

Quark stared at the screen for another few seconds, wondering if she meant it. Then he shook off the wisp of melancholy and whipped around to look for his apprentice. “Shmenge! I have a learning experience for you!”

An hour later, Shmenge returned from Wormhole Rent-a-Shuttle and cheerfully handed Quark a padd to review.

As Quark’s eyes traveled down the screen, he felt his blood pressure rising. “What?” he bellowed. “You took the premium model? It costs an extra strip a day!”

“But . . . but they said they wouldn’t have a smaller shuttle available until tomorrow,” Shmenge said, half attempting to stand up for himself, half attempting to slip away and make himself invisible.

“Well, of course they said that, you fool—”

“I . . . I think that it’s true, sir,” Shmenge said, standing his ground. “They haven’t been on the station very long and they want to build up a clientele. I told them you wouldn’t spend that much, and look—they deducted the extra charge from the total!” He directed Quark’s gaze to the bottom of the electronic document. “And besides, think how much more comfortable we’ll be. The seats are Corinthian leather, and it has a little sleep chamber in the back. It even has a minireplicator.”

Quark waggled a finger at Shmenge. “You know they charge for everything you program out of that minireplicator, don’t you? That’s where their profit is. However”—he paused, throwing the boy a bone—“I do like Corinthian leather.” He went back to perusing the contract, shrugging at most of the options accepted or declined.

Then his eyes fell on an item in very tiny print. “You didn’t decline the expanded insurance rider!” he shrieked. “Are you insane? No competent Ferengi ever accepts the expanded insurance.”

“But it’s just a few slips a day . . .” Shmenge protested weakly. “It seemed . . . prudent.”

“It’s like throwing latinum down the ’fresher,” Quark scoffed. “The shuttle has shields, doesn’t it? It’s a Federation requirement for rental vehicles.”

“Minimal shields,” Shmenge noted, but Quark was no longer listening.

“Okay, we can fix this,” the bartender said. “It doesn’t say so in the contract, but most of these riders don’t go into effect until the shuttle leaves the station. Pay attention and you’ll learn how an experienced Ferengi negotiates a contract.”

Quark opened a link to the rental office and explained the “mix-up” to the manager, a silver-bearded Tellarite. “He’s only an apprentice,” the experienced Ferengi negotiator said. “He doesn’t yet know what he’s authorized to do and what’s the mere by-product of his youthful exuberance.”

Concluding the conversation, Quark turned back to Shmenge. “Well, he was surprisingly accommodating, particularly considering he’s a Tellarite. Must be getting long in the tooth. Or tusk. Whatever it is. In any event, he’s canceling the insurance for the rest of the week, but we’re stuck with it for today.” He shrugged. “That’s okay, I’ll take it out of your salary when we get back. Like you said, ‘It’s just a few slips,’ right?” He glanced at the chronometer on the companel. “Treir should be here on the next transport from Bajor. We’ll leave right after she arrives. You might want to pack a bag.”

Shmenge shuffled off toward the employee lounge—where Quark had graciously allowed him to stay—and returned a minute later. “I’m ready.”

Quark frowned. “Where’s your bag?”

Shmenge shrugged. “All I need is my tooth sharpener and some underwear.”

“Fine,” Quark said. “Meet me at Docking Port Six in an hour.” And he went off to pack his own underwear.

6

Wrigley’s Conference Complex sprawled across most of Desire Island, a self-described “beacon of extravagance, elegance, commerce, and orgiastic splendor” just a short jump from the coastal city of Debauche. Shmenge stood near the front of the hover tram that was speeding them from Wrigley’s spaceport to the island and gasped. “This is . . . this is amazing!” the young Ferengi said, pulling at Quark’s sleeve to get his attention. But Quark just shook him off, concentrating instead on the information about Holo-Palooza that he’d downloaded onto his padd.

Before them, the complex sparkled. Towering structures sliced the sky, many of them duplicates of iconic buildings from across the quadrant. Spectral beams of radiant light cast messages of “The Best! The Most! The Hottest!” onto force-field billboards high overhead. Shmenge had never seen a place so extravagant. Granted, before traveling to Deep Space 9, he’d seen the sights only around Ferenginar’s capital city. He’d been taught that the Tower of Commerce was the most elegant structure in the quadrant. That, he now realized, was an exaggeration. Across a tree-lined parkway, between a replica of Andoria’s famous Sapphire Spire and a Lurian pentahedrol pyramid, he could see an exact reproduction of the most famous Ferengi building. Compared to the others, it looked stubby and frumpy, as if designed by a rather unimaginative architect.

The tram bounced to a halt. Quark looked up, then glanced at his padd to confirm their location. “There it is,” he said, “right over there,” and he headed for an archway decorated on either side with high-relief Roman pillars cut into a wall the color of tusk enamel. A shimmering sign over the arch read HOLO-PALOOZA—BUSINESS CONFERENCE OF PARAMOUNT IMPORTANCE. Shmenge followed, distracted, almost stumbling into the circular fountain near the front of the arch. Quark glanced back at his apprentice. “Don’t say anything, and don’t touch anything,” he snapped as he entered the archway—or at least entered it as far as he could before crashing against the sparkle of a force-field door.

The disturbance prompted an attractive but obviously bored female Elloran standing on the other side of the force field to say, “Entry to Holo-Palooza is restricted to members of the business community.”

Quark rubbed his nose. “I am a businessman. And I have business at the conference,” he said. “My name is Quark, proprietor of Quark’s Public House, Café, Gaming Emporium, Holosuite Arcade, and Ferengi Embassy on Bajor.”

“May I see your registration pass?” the Elloran recited from memory.

“I’d like to buy one,” he replied. “And according to your brochure material, the entry fee is six strips of latinum.”

He prepared to punch the transaction into his padd, but she stopped him. “That was the advance rate,” she said. “The day-of-entry fee is thirteen strips.”

“Thirteen! That’s outrageous!” Quark shouted, but the look of disinterest on the female’s face informed him that she didn’t care. Grumbling, he forwarded the thirteen. The force field fizzed and he stepped through, signaling Shmenge to follow him. Then it was Shmenge’s turn to crash into the shield.

“What’re you doing?” Quark said, surprised.

“I need to see his registration pass. Or his thirteen strips.”

“He’s only my assistant,” sputtered Quark.

“He’s breathing, isn’t he?” the Elloran said, and her mouth formed into what may have been a smile, although it wasn’t carried by her eyes.

“Pay the lady,” Quark growled at Shmenge. The shocked youth hastily punched the transaction into his padd and chased after Quark as they headed into . . .

. . . an assault on their eyes and ears that hit them like a battlefront.

From wall to wall to floor to ceiling, flashing booths, shifting displays, and decibel-defying audio-ads promoted holoprograms, holonovels, and hologames: “Galaxy of Borg-craft,” “Authentic Artificial Life Death Experiences,” “Dominion Dominatrix Detention.” As thousands of businessmen wandered the concourse, holographic images floated over and around them, popping into their faces, vying for their attention. All the while, a steady drone of dialogue cut through the musical, mechanical, and maniacal cacophony: “. . . serving the publishing community’s need to satisfy the public’s demand for an expanding panoply of entertainment values and technologies . . .”

Leaning into each other’s ears in order to hear, Quark and Shmenge simultaneously shouted their reactions to the chaos. “This is the most . . . (from Quark) horrific (from Shmenge) fabulous . . . room I’ve ever been in!”

The older Ferengi grabbed his apprentice by the ear, dragging him toward a brightly lit information booth near the center of the onslaught. Shmenge waited while Quark spoke to another Elloran female, then turned back to him. “Broht is at the B and F Pavilion in the Omega Wing!” Quark shouted. “Don’t get lost, don’t bother me, and don’t turn off the tracking capabilities on your padd,” he instructed, and then crashed headlong into the agglomerate.

Broht & Forrester’s presentation arena wasn’t the largest on the display floor, but Quark observed that the company had spent its money where it counts. Thanks to an array of cleverly placed holoprojectors, the lifelike antics of the publisher’s literary legends drew in all the traffic the B & F pavilion could handle. Here galumphed Toby the Targ, the anthropomorphized Klingon beast that children of most species found strangely enchanting. There swashbuckled Ziroma, the sultry Caitian pirate queen whose all-female crew terrorized the inhabitants of the mythical sky kingdom of Flarflandia. At the back of the pavilion, a milling crowd parted nervously as Dixon Hill sprinted through their midst—just before hitman Felix Leech emptied a volley of holographic hot lead in their direction.

And there, standing motionless next to the sales counter, was a life-size simulacrum of beautiful T’lana, frozen in an evocative pose that pulled Quark in like a tractor beam. He stared up at her in near reverence and imagined himself nuzzling that pale citron skin as she coiled latinum restraints around him . . .

“Can I help you?”

For a millisecond, Quark allowed himself to believe that it was T’lana’s image talking. Then his senses returned, pouring a bucket of cold reality over his head as he focused on the actual speaker, an exceptionally ugly Nausicaan wearing an exceptionally stylish business suit. His coarse, dark hair was slicked back into a neat braid interwoven with strips of animal hide.

Quark cleared his throat. He’d never encountered a Nausicaan employed as an aide-de-camp; their brute strength and quick tempers made them more suited for work as bouncers or bodyguards. “Uhhhh . . . yes, you can help me. You can tell Mister Broht that Quark, proprietor of the holosuite arcade on Deep Space Nine and the facility at Aljuli, Bajor, would like to see him.”

The Nausicaan leveled a hollow-eyed stare at the Ferengi, his facial tusks twitching in what Quark could only interpret as disdain. “I don’t recall seeing that name on Mister Broht’s list of appointments. Perhaps there’s been a miscommunication.”

Quark plastered a smile on his face. He’d offer a bribe, but Nausicaans were notoriously indifferent to bribes. You could pay them to kill someone, but you couldn’t grease their palms. Weird. So he made another go at being polite. “Yes, I’m sure of that, Mister”—he searched for the Nausicaan’s name badge and spotted it on his jacket—“Franti,” he concluded. “A miscommunication. But we can clear it up right now. Just tell Mister Broht that I’m here. We’ve been doing business together for years.”

“Then you should be aware that Mister Broht doesn’t see anyone at a sales conference without a preset appointment. Perhaps you’d like to make one for next year’s conference.”

Quark’s smile threatened to turn into a snarl. “If I wanted an appointment for next year, I wouldn’t be here now, would I?”

The Nausicaan’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “I don’t know where you’d be. I do know that Mister Broht is a Very. Busy. Man. I suggest you leave.” Quark still had bad dreams about his last close encounter with the Nausicaan species, which had left him with a shattered eye socket, two fractured ribs, and a punctured lower lung, but he refused to back down. Wrapping up a deal for Vulcan Love Slave IV: Lust’s Latinum Lost was important to his survival.

He reached up and grabbed the Nausicaan’s lapel. “If you want to risk blowing a huge deal for your boss, that’s fine,” he said. “Maybe you have other employment options that require less thinking. But if I were you, I’d give him the opportunity to make up his own mind. He needs to see me.” He stared into the twin black holes behind Franti’s own bony eye sockets, letting him think about that for a moment. Then he casually let go of the lapel, smoothing out the wrinkles he’d created. “Nice fabric, Franti. Is this Tholian silk?”

There was a beeeep from something on the sales counter. The Nausicaan retrieved a small padd and studied it, then straightened. “One moment,” he said with a hiss, disappearing into the pavilion’s interior office.

Quark let out the breath he’d been holding, wiped a few drops of sweat from his forehead, and softly recited the Sixty-Second Rule of Acquisition under his breath: “The riskier the road, the greater the profit. The riskier the road . . .”

By the time the Nausicaan returned, Quark’s heart was beating quite normally.

“Mister Broht indicates that he has a moment to exchange pleasantries with an old friend,” said Franti. He held the door open for the Ferengi.

“Well, of course he has,” said Quark. “Didn’t I tell you that?”

Shmenge couldn’t believe his luck. Quark had set him free in the middle of the biggest, loudest, most exciting party he could have imagined. A cacophony of music cues, promotion pitches, and production sonics, punctuated by simulated phaser, disrupter, and plasma blasts, melded into a hypnotic wall of white noise. Buyers and vendors hustled from display to display, many of them representatives of species that Shmenge had never seen before. As he walked past the colorful sales booths, holographic tentacles reached out to caress his face and his lobes, and gently encircle his wrist in programmed attempts to maneuver him toward the vendor’s product line.

And then there were the Holo-Hotties! Some costumed, some barely clothed, the female, male, and androgynous product pushers wandered through the crowd pitching their companies’ wares. At first, Shmenge felt a bit shy when a Holo-Hottie approached him; he was, after all, only a visitor and not an actual customer. Then an especially alluring Tarlac in a skintight gold jumpsuit held out an isolinear chip and asked, “Would you like a free test sample?” And just like that, he was hooked.

As he continued to walk the floor, he filled the pouches in his tunic with items freely offered as “goodwill gifts.” And when an Argrathi Holo-Hottie offered him a large promotional bag emblazoned with the intriguing phrase WADI RULE, he began filling that as well. He collected hologames and Marauder Mo accessories, holonovels and a necklace made of genuine Spican flame gems, instruction manual downloads, a plethora of soon-to-be-released holoprograms, and a fearsome glow-in-the-dark Mugato mask. His favorite item was a fuzzy toy Trill symbiont that giggled when he squeezed it. And he was extremely curious about a mysterious black isolinear chip labeled, simply, “Mona Luvsitt’s Backdoor Code.”

He could hardly wait to tell his moogie about his entrepreneurial growth.

She’d probably like the necklace, too.

Now this is more like it, Quark thought as he settled into the plush guest chair across from Ardon Broht’s desk.

“Can I offer you a drink?” asked the Bolian publisher. “Altair water? Raktajino? I may even have a little kanar,” he said with a puckish grin. “Got a taste for it last time I was on your station.”

“Always happy to introduce a customer to a new vice,” Quark responded with a smile of his own.

“So I’ve heard,” chortled Broht. “But perhaps it’s a bit early in the day for spirits. Why don’t we share some Tarkalean tea?”

Truthfully, Quark wasn’t thirsty, but he nodded his head anyway. Broht tapped a message onto his padd, then leaned back in his chair. “How long has it been, Quark? I don’t believe we’ve spoken in person for years.”

“Let me think. I know it was on the old station . . .” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, I know! It was right after you withdrew Photons Be Free from circulation—”

Broht’s expression soured as he recalled one of the very few miscalculations he’d made in his hugely successful career. “Yes, well, let’s not dwell on the past.”

Quark agreeably changed the subject. “Say, I hear you have an exciting lineup for the coming year. Care to fill me in?”

The publisher relaxed as he launched into a patented spiel about his upcoming titles. The Ferengi feigned interest, his ears attuned only to the words “Vulcan,” “Love,” and “Slave.”

Without knocking, Franti entered carrying a loaded tea tray. He set the tray down, placed a cup in front of Broht, and filled it with the steaming beverage. Then he turned to Quark. The Nausicaan’s expression was impassive, but it was too easy to read a hint of malevolence in those deep sunken eyes.

“I’ll get it myself, thanks,” the Ferengi said quickly, rising to retrieve a cup as Franti departed.

Broht was waxing on about an upcoming line of android love stories when Quark finally opted to interrupt him. “Say, Ardon, my customers really enjoyed Shmun’s New Hope. You knocked it out of the park with that one!”

Broht visibly puffed up at the praise. “I did, didn’t I? Triple-bar sales the first week it was out and still doing steady business! I wish all our titles sold that well.”

“And I wish all my titles rented that well!” Quark said, taking a sip of his tea. “Everyone keeps asking me, ‘When is the sequel coming? When can I expect to see the next installment of Vulcan Love Slave?’ ”

Broht laughed heartily. “If I knew the answer to that, I’d be a rich man!”

Quark took another sip. “Well, surely you’re working on it.” He leaned forward and gave the Bolian a conspiratorial wink. “I heard rumors that you might be revealing a bit here at the conference—just to pique appetites.”

Broht looked puzzled. “Would that I could, but there’s nothing like that on the horizon.”

Quark dropped his cup to the matching saucer with a sharp clink. “Nothing?”

Broht shook his head. “Trust me. I’ve been pushing my creative team for months, but I can’t seem to get a rise out of them.”

“Huh,” the Ferengi said. “So I guess there’s no chance that someone would have been zeta testing it,” he mused out loud.

Broht’s brow furrowed. “Not without my knowing about it. Why would you think someone was testing it?”

It occurred to Quark that perhaps he’d said too much. “Is that what it sounded like?” he said, forcing out a chuckle. “I told you—I heard a rumor that there’s a new sequel. I figured that if anyone knew the details, it’d be you.”

Broht’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right. And if anyone were to do it, it would be me, because it’s my franchise.”

“Well, technically the original story is in public domain,” Quark couldn’t help pointing out. “No one knows who the author was, so no messy estates to deal with. But . . . uh . . . I’m sure you’re right. No one would dare to compete with you. You’re the largest publisher in the Alpha Quadrant.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Well, it’s been nice visiting with you, Ardon.”

Suddenly Broht was standing in front of him. “Where did you hear this rumor, Quark?”

Quark fidgeted under Broht’s intense gaze. “You know how it is on the station, Ardon. Barroom talk, that’s all.” He chuckled weakly. “I keep my ears open in the hopes of hearing profit in the wind, but sometimes it’s just a lot of hot air.”

“Why would you think there was a test version? Great azure gods,” said Broht, the color draining from his face. “You haven’t seen a test version, have you?”

Quark slapped his hand to his chest. “Me? Of course not! I should be so lucky!” He walked to the door. “Come visit the new bar sometime. There’s a bottle of kanar with your name on it!”

Stepping out of the office, Quark looked around for Franti and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the Nausicaan was engaged in an animated conversation with a group of Edosians. The Ferengi quickly made his way to the concourse floor, then pulled out his padd and signaled Shmenge to meet him at the front entrance.

A total bust, he thought bitterly. Back to square one.

7

Quark paced restlessly outside the entrance to Holo-Palooza. The day felt warm and sunny as a hint of onshore breeze wafted a refreshing spritz of moisture over him from the nearby bubbling fountain. But the ambience was wasted on Quark. He had no interest in anything beyond leaving this disappointing ball of dirt.

He was in the process of telling himself that if Shmenge didn’t show up in the next millisecond he could walk back home, when suddenly a ripple formed in the entrance’s force field—and an obese Ferengi shoved his bulk through it.

Quark’s jaw dropped. The figure waddling toward him was Shmenge, but a profoundly changed Shmenge, his bloated body—no, it was his bloated clothing—bulging from items of every shape imaginable that were stuffed into every pocket, every pouch, every loose fold in the fabric.

“What the hell is this?” Quark asked as Shmenge inched toward him, struggling under the weight of the overflowing carry bags dangling from both shoulders.

“P-premiums,” the ecstatic youngster gasped, holding up the bundle of loot he held in his right fist. “They’re handing out stuff everywhere!” He eyed Quark in surprise. “Didn’t you get any?”

Quark raised his gaze to the heavens. “It’s junk!” he growled. “Promotional junk!” He spun on his heels and began walking toward the hover tram launch.

“But . . . but it’s free!” Shmenge responded.

Over his shoulder, Quark shouted, “These people are businessmen, and no businessman gives away anything of value! Drop it into a recycler and let’s get out of here.”

Shmenge stared at the older Ferengi in disbelief, then determinedly shifted his packages and hustled after him, grunting as the heaviest bag banged against his knee with every step.

Quark rolled his eyes but said nothing while Shmenge schlepped his treasures onto the tram. If he wants to take home worthless souvenirs, let him.

Assuming we can take off with all that added weight.

Once back at their rented shuttle, Quark headed straight to the minireplicator and ordered a large shot of snail juice with extra shells. “Broht doesn’t know a thing about Vulcan Love Slave IV,” he snarled as the glass materialized before him. “So we’re nowhere. Worse than nowhere.” He downed the drink quickly, pausing only to noisily masticate the shells. Then he ordered a second shot.

Shmenge opened his mouth to remind Quark of the extravagant minireplicator charges, then thought better of it. His boss was in a bad enough mood as it was. A different thought popped into his head as he attempted to stuff his booty into a small storage locker. “You know, sir, I was thinking,” he began tentatively. “Um, maybe we can find the person who wrote the earlier sequels and ask him if he knows about this new one.”

“That’s a stupid idea,” Quark snapped between crunches. “Nobody knows who the writers of these programs are. That’s the way the publishers want it. You see their company names on the programs and that’s it. Broht’s not about to reveal the names of his actual writers.”

But Shmenge already was busy on the shuttle’s computer, poring through the Vulcan Love Slave user-klatch sites and asking pointed questions about the writers and the programmers. His queries quickly brought a plethora of salacious responses, not exactly what he’d expected. After several minutes Quark turned to look at his apprentice as the youngster’s mumbling increased in volume: “That’s not what I asked— That’s just vulg— I wasn’t suggesting anything of that sort— No, I didn’t say I wanted to—” Then Shmenge shouted, “How rude!” and quickly ended all transmissions.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen that color on a Ferengi’s face before, Quark thought. “No luck?” he asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Shmenge said, his eyes shifting toward the minireplicator. He wondered if he dared ask permission to get himself a small glass of snail juice (neat, without shells) but ultimately opted against it. He sighed. “No. Nobody wants to discuss the, um, writers. They’re happy to discuss the variables of the stories, though. The different ways you can twist them. And I do mean twist them.” He shuddered. “There are some strange individuals out there.”

Quark shrugged. “Strange is just money in the bank to a clever entrepreneur,” he said.

Shmenge tilted his head to one side. “I never heard that. Is that one of the Rules?”

Quark shook his head. “Nope. I just made it up. It should be one, though, shouldn’t it?” he said, pleased with himself. He emptied his glass and put it back into the replicator slot to recycle. “Let’s get ready to lift off.”

As Shmenge reached for the toggle to power up, a peculiar tweedling sound filled the air. The two Ferengi looked around the cabin, puzzled. After a moment of searching the controls, Shmenge noticed a flashing light on the companel. “It’s an incoming message. Voice only.”

“Maybe Treir’s calling to say we have a customer,” Quark said. “Open it.”

Shmenge flipped a switch and responded to the hail with his name and the call letters for the rental vehicle, WORM47. For a moment, they heard only the rumble of static, then a female voice. “Shmenge WORM47, I have observed your query on the VLS user site Devoted Disciples of the Love Slave. It seems that you are looking for me.”

Shmenge winced. “It’s one of those strange individuals,” he whispered to Quark. “I’m going to cut her off.”

But Quark caught Shmenge’s hand just as he was about to end the transmission. “Hang on,” he said, sotto voce. “Remember that new rule of mine? Let’s hear what she has to say.” He turned to address the companel. “This is WORM47,” he stated. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“WORM47, I am the individual about whom you inquired. May I assume that you wish to pursue a more detailed conversation?”

Quark’s eyes widened in surprise. Common sense told him that Shmenge’s brief trolling gambit couldn’t possibly have paid off so precisely. But seeing as he had no other options, common sense be damned. “Yes, you may. And please, call me Quark. What did you say your name was?”

“All in good time. My multilateration algorithm places you in the vicinity of Wrigley Intergalactic Spaceport—”

Quark looked over at Shmenge. “Her what?” he mouthed.

“—If you wish to meet, come to Radioactive Residuals at twenty-three hundred hours tonight.” With a final crackle of static, the signal terminated.

“Wait!” said Quark. “You didn’t—” He pounded the console in frustration. “What just happened?”

“She traced our com signal,” Shmenge observed, a hint of admiration in his voice. “Did it fast, too.” He grinned. “She must be here on the planet. Probably attending Holo-Palooza.”

“But . . . but . . . how does she expect us to find her? And what the hell are radioactive residuals?”

Shmenge thought for a moment, then exploded as he experienced an epiphany. “Oh! Oh! I think I know!” He reached into his pocket, extracted a handful of small iridescent chips, and dropped them on the navigation console. “Business contact chips!” he explained.

“What were you going to do with those?” Quark asked scornfully. “You have no use for business contacts. You’re a waiter. No, you’re a sub-waiter.”

“I thought they were pretty,” Shmenge admitted sheepishly as he poked through the multihued chips. “Oh! Here it is!” He plugged the chip into his padd and beamed in triumph. “Radioactive Residuals. It’s a bar in the Debauche casino district. And look,” he said, flashing his padd at Quark, “it says I get a free drink!”

Quark snatched the padd away from Shmenge and stared at the image on the screen. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “You mean I get a free drink,” he said, pulling the chip from the slot. “Come on. We’ve got a tram to catch.”

8

This doesn’t look promising, Quark thought.

Radioactive Residuals stood alone, a low-slung mud structure on a dark street reminiscent of the Wrigley’s that had lost its cachet over the years. Only the sign shimmering above the entrance announcing the establishment’s name showed any possibility of life. Reluctantly, Quark pulled open the heavy wooden door. “After you,” he said, stepping aside and nudging his surprised apprentice in before him.

They found themselves at the top of a staircase that led into a natural cave of unenhanced rough-hewn walls surrounding a surprisingly lively bar. The primary source of lighting came from the house beverages, which glowed like the fires of Kri’stak, bringing to mind the contaminated outpouring from a faulty warp core. All around the room Quark could see radiant drinks in vivid shades of red, purple, orange, green, and blue.

“Go find something to do,” he instructed Shmenge, who obliged by dropping onto a stool at the bar and reviewing some of the digital handouts from the conference on his padd. Quark seated himself at a table that faced the front door and studied the chronometer on his own padd.

Twelve minutes.

Shmenge’s free drink card netted Quark a Therbian Thrill, that day’s special. Quark had heard of Therbian liquor and knew its reputation as a cherished intoxicant, but he’d never bothered to stock it on DS9. Distilled from the saliva of elderly Therbian monks on the planet Aaamazzara, the liquor definitely wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. However, Quark tried not to be too judgmental when it came to refreshments; he looked forward to sampling it.

As the attractive Argelian server approached Quark’s table with his drink, the cocktail’s yellow-green phosphorescence illuminated the contours of her upper-body musculature.

She set it down in front of him with a smile. “Visor, sir?”

Quark squinted at the drink. “Do I need one?”

“Some species are very sensitive to light, so we’re required to ask.” She studied him briefly. “Let’s see—you’re a . . . Ferengi? No, I wouldn’t think so.”

She disappeared into the darkness, leaving Quark to ponder his potable. He took a sip, savoring the harmonious mix of mint, mold, and musk, accented with just a hint of . . . hmmm . . . is that beetle? and a refreshing acidic finish. He smacked his lips in approval. Not bad. Not bad at all.

He was actually considering paying for a refill when a shapely silhouette appeared at the entrance of the bar and snagged his attention. Backlit by the glow of the exterior sign, Quark knew that the new arrival was female, but that was all he could tell.

Her eyesight, apparently, was keener than his; she walked directly to his table. “You are Quark?”

“I am. Please, have a—”

But she was already seating herself. “I appreciate your punctuality,” she said.

“And I yours,” he responded amiably. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“That is not necessary,” she responded. “You have questions for me?”

“I have questions for the writer of the Vulcan Love Slave series,” Quark said. “Would that be you?”

“I am the series’ key technical consultant,” she said.

“And that means . . . ?”

“I am the primary writer and producer of the three VLS volumes.”

There was something familiar about her voice. “That’s, uh, that’s very impressive,” Quark noted as he tried to get a good look at her face. But the damn bar was too dark. He thought he saw the outline of a pointy ear, but it could have been his imagination. She’s Vulcan? I guess that would make sense—they’d need a Vulcan consultant for the series. But there’s something else— “Are you sure you won’t have a drink?” he urged.

“I am not thirsty,” she responded.

Okay, fine—forget subtlety. Quark lifted the still-glowing glass that had held his Therbian Thrill and angled it toward her face, illuminating her delicate features. She was, indeed, Vulcan, and strikingly beautiful. And—

The vague sense of familiarity he’d been experiencing abruptly swelled up and threatened to overwhelm him as he recognized her.

“T’lana!” he gasped, nearly dropping the glass.

She grasped his forearm firmly and lowered his hand—and the glass—to the table. “Please keep your voice down,” she said, glancing around the bar. “You may call me that if you wish—but do it quietly.”

“T’lana,” he repeated softly. “I . . . I didn’t know you were real.” Quark felt slightly giddy. It wasn’t every day that one met a private fantasy.

“I can assure you, I am quite real. You are no doubt confused by my resemblance to the character’s holographic matrix, which is modeled on my appearance.”

“No doubt,” Quark said distantly. “But . . . but what are you doing here?”

“As I said, I am a holonovel writer and producer. I am participating in seminars hosted by the conference.”

“But you’re a . . . a . . .” He searched for the word. “A holo-actress,” he concluded.

“I am a level-eighteen programmer,” she responded crisply. “It is foolish to assume that one cannot hold a major technical position as well as a minor artistic role. However, I am not here to capitalize on the latter.”

“No, of course not,” Quark murmured agreeably. “That would be . . . uh . . . tacky.” Actually, he thought that capitalizing on her artistic role would have been a logical move. Publicity, after all, moved a mountain of merchandise—

His train of thought jolted to a halt as a padd was thrust into his face. Shmenge, predictably, was attached to it. “Boss, look. It says here that T’lana was scheduled to sign autographs in the B and F sales kiosk today—”

It was only then that Shmenge’s gaze drifted from Quark to the person seated across the table. His jaw and his padd dropped at the same time, the latter landing on the tabletop with a noisy clatter. To his credit, however, the apprentice was a quick study. Clearly his boss was playing an angle that Shmenge hadn’t had the foresight to envision. He recovered his padd, stuffed it into his pocket, and pulled up a chair to observe the action at close range.

“Autographs, eh?” A grin spread across Quark’s face. “Go ahead, my dear,” he urged the female. “You were saying something about your lack of interest in capitalizing on your performance in front of the holo-cameras.”

T’lana gently cleared her throat. “Some contractual obligations are unavoidable,” she said smoothly.

“So you work for Broht,” Quark said.

“I work for several publishers, primarily behind the scenes,” she parried. “But yes, until recently I had a broad consultation arrangement with Broht’s firm.”

“The VLS series,” Quark said.

“Yes.”

He decided to get straight to the point. “Are you responsible for the new VLS program? And please don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“That would be an illogical prevarication,” T’lana responded calmly. “I must assume that you’ve come here because you have seen evidence of the new sequel’s existence. I cannot take all the credit, but yes—I collaborated in its creation.”

Quark released a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Verification at last! “So Broht was lying,” he muttered. “He knew about it all the time.”

She shook her head. “VLS IV is not a Broht and Forrester project. My appearance at the sales kiosk was the fulfillment of my final commitment to the company. Broht doesn’t know about the new program.”

Oops. A tiny bead of cold sweat dripped down Quark’s neck. “Uh, well, he does now. I sort of suggested that one exists.”

T’lana stared at him. “And how did he react?”

Quark rubbed his neck uneasily as he recalled the conversation. “Uh, he didn’t appear to be happy.”

“Then I would suggest that we continue this meeting elsewhere,” the Vulcan said, rising to her feet.

Quark studied her for a second. He was tired of playing cat-and-mouse games. “Look . . . T’lana. This has been a long day. Is there something for us to continue meeting about? I want Lust’s Latinum Lost if you have it.” He stood up and looked her in the eye. “Do you have it?”

T’lana glanced around cautiously. “It is not on this planet. But I know where it is. I can tell you whom to contact.”

“For a fee.”

“Of course,” she replied.

Quark considered. “No,” he said at last.

Now Shmenge got to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process. “No?” he echoed bewilderedly.

T’lana ignored the youth and raised an elegant eyebrow at Quark. “Explain.”

“You seem like a nice girl, T’lana, but I know that Vulcans are as capable of deceit as any other species. Certainly the T’lana in the holonovels is, and for all intents and purposes, that’s you. I’m not laying out another slip until I’m actually holding the program in my hands. I’ll pay you—but only when you actually deliver the product to me.”

Now T’lana considered. “Your paranoia is irrational, but I will do what I can to alleviate it. For a modest fee, I will act as your purchasing liaison and introduce you to my partner. You may then conduct your negotiations for the product directly, without an intermediary. Would that be satisfactory?”

Quark reviewed all the permutations of the arrangement, the ways it could go wrong or work out just fine. The odds, he decided, were evenly stacked. He likely couldn’t do better than that. “Okay,” he said. “Do you have your own transportation, or would you like to travel with us?”

“I am assuming that your stress level would be lower if we were to travel together in your vehicle.”

Quark nodded. As they headed up the stairs and exited out onto the street, he permitted himself a little smile. Truth be told, spending a bit more time alone (well, nearly alone, he thought, staring at Shmenge) in the company of the glorious T’lana would not be a terrible hardship, whether she was trustworthy or not.

Who knows, maybe by the end of the trip she’ll be calling me Shmun . . .

9

“Didn’t I tell you to input the bay number on your padd!” growled Quark.

“I did input the bay number,” Shmenge protested. “I just didn’t input the level. But how hard is it to find a level? There can’t be more than a dozen.”

“There are thirty-two,” said T’lana, studying a location map near the entrance to the docking structure. “Assuming, of course, this is the correct structure.”

“Of course this is it,” the young Ferengi said brightly. “Look, there’s the tram station. I remember seeing it right in front of us when we left.”

“This spaceport is laid out like a big wheel, you idiot,” spouted Quark. “You can see the tram station right in front of you from all the docking structures—”

“Gentlemen,” T’lana interrupted, gesturing at a featureless black information monolith near the perimeter of the spaceport’s docking area.

Quark strode over to it. “No buttons, so it must be voice activated,” he guessed. He cleared his throat and addressed the slab. “We are looking for the location of our vessel.”

A flurry of bright lights appeared at the monolith’s center, twinkling like stars.

“Pretty,” Shmenge said, oblivious of Quark’s heated glare.

The stars flashed into a circular pattern that began spinning. And spinning.

“What’s it waiting for?” Quark asked at last. Shmenge shrugged.

T’lana exhaled deeply and shouldered past the two Ferengi. “WORM47,” she told the monolith. If she hadn’t been Vulcan, Quark would have sworn he detected a tad of impatience in her demeanor.

A portion of the stars coalesced into a glowing symbol matching the design on the docking structure next to the one they’d been searching; the rest of the stars morphed into the level and bay numbers.

“See? Bay five forty-five! I told you I had that right!” exclaimed Shmenge.

Quark resisted kicking him.

It wasn’t until they rounded the corner and faced the shuttle that Quark realized he had a bigger problem than a dim-witted apprentice. About two meters big—and extremely ugly.

This can’t be good, he thought. “To what do we owe this pleasure, Franti?”

“Mister Broht requests a meeting,” the Nausicaan said, his deep, threatening tone resonating as the trio drew near.

Quark nodded. “You know, I would just love to accommodate him, but I have a more pressing appointment. You see, I’m a Very. Busy. Man. Why don’t you tell Ardon to call the Ferengi Embassy? Shmenge will be happy to set something up for him. Sometime next year, perhaps?”

“That will not do,” rumbled Franti. “Mister Broht wishes to see you immediately.” He glanced past the two Ferengi, noting the female Vulcan who stood a few steps behind them. “T’lana. Yes, of course. He anticipated that. I believe it would be best if you accompanied me as well.”

“I am no longer employed by Mister Broht,” T’lana said. “I have no interest in meeting with him.”

“Your interest is of no interest to me,” Franti said sternly.

“He doesn’t want to see me, does he?” piped up Shmenge. “I don’t even know him.”

The Nausicaan stared at the younger Ferengi but didn’t respond immediately. As Quark imagined the wheels turning inside the ugly beast’s skull, he realized that now was the time to make a break for it.

“C’mon!” he shouted, and he charged toward the shuttle. Shmenge followed, but before they’d gotten more than a few steps, Franti grabbed both of them and lifted them off the floor. The squeal that rose from Shmenge’s throat was out-decibeled by the scream of terror emitting from Quark. The two Ferengi kicked, thrashed, and floundered in the air—until the Nausicaan lifted them up to his hideous face and gave them a sharp shake. “Stop that!” he snarled, his facial tusks twitching. “You really don’t want to make me angry.”

Taking advantage of the distraction, T’lana slipped behind Franti, reached past his neat braid, and gave a hefty squeeze to the nerve cluster near the base of his neck. For a moment, nothing happened, and Quark figured they were about to die. Then the beast dropped like a stone, in turn dropping the two Ferengi like smaller stones. Bruised and battered stones.

“I would suggest we depart expeditiously,” T’lana stated. Quark and Shmenge didn’t argue. They extricated themselves from under a tangle of the Nausicaan’s sprawled limbs and raced into the shuttle.

10

Shmenge dropped to the seat in front of the controls. “Where are we going?” he shouted as his hands fluttered wildly above the panel. He’d never felt his heart beat so fast. After confronting that Nausicaan, he was sure it couldn’t possibly beat any faster. But then—

“Allow me,” T’lana said. Her wrist lightly brushed his lobe and he felt the warm pressure of her breast against his shoulder as she reached down to punch in a set of coordinates. The sensation jolted Shmenge’s heart rate to warp speed, and his vision began to blur. He might have swooned if the sudden firing of the shuttle’s navigation thrusters hadn’t reminded him that he was at the helm and financially responsible for a clean liftoff. My moogie never said there’d be days like this, he thought as he focused on keeping the ship from scraping the finish off a shuttlepod in the adjacent bay. Signaling the spaceport’s automated controller, he received clearance to depart.

As they left orbit, the young Ferengi breathed an audible sigh of relief. He glanced over at T’lana. “Is there anything else that I need to do? Set a control or something? Or will it just . . .” He gestured vaguely at the navigation controls.

“The course is laid in,” she informed him, taking a seat. “You shouldn’t need to do anything for quite some time. Assuming we don’t run into a quasar.”

The color drained from Shmenge’s face. “Is that, uh, likely?” the youth asked, his voice cracking in midsentence. T’lana didn’t bother to respond; she already was absorbed in something on her padd.

Shmenge shot Quark a nervous glance, but the older Ferengi shook his head, conveying his lack of concern, and settled into the chair closest to T’lana’s. He decided not to ask where they were going; he doubted that she’d tell him anyway. Besides, if she was anything like the woman she portrayed in the holonovels, she had a preference for men who didn’t ask too many questions.

He studied her closely. Now that he could actually see her, he could confirm that she was truly the most beautiful Vulcan female he’d ever encountered. And well preserved, too. The first Vulcan Love Slave adaptation had appeared in the marketplace more than two decades ago, but T’lana didn’t look a day older. Of course, she was a Vulcan, and as such aged more slowly than humans or Ferengi.

Shmenge, thankfully, had finally settled down. Like T’lana, he had opted to pass the time by reading. Quark nodded approvingly when he saw that his apprentice was absorbed in a tome that he’d personally recommended: Speegal’s Little Book of Legal Larceny, a current bestseller on Ferenginar.

Quark didn’t feel like reading. There were, however, other opportunities at hand. As he studied T’lana’s long, slender fingers, he couldn’t help thinking about how expertly she—or rather, her character—had employed them in the truncated holonovel that Rionoj had given him.

“So,” he said, using his sweetest voice, “do you do all your own . . . uh, ‘stunts’?”

“I cannot discuss trade secrets,” she responded, not taking her eyes off her reading.

“I’m just curious as to the quality of the product I hope to obtain.”

This time T’lana did lift her gaze to meet Quark’s. “The point is moot until you see it. In any event, I understand that your species has a rule regarding the aftermath of business transactions. I believe it goes, ‘Satisfaction is not guaranteed.’ ”

“Number Nineteen,” Shmenge called from the helm. “I know that one.”

“Everybody knows that one,” Quark snapped. He turned back to T’lana with a semisincere smile. “I wasn’t implying that I don’t trust you, T’lana. I was just curious about how deeply you’d researched your subject matter. In the holos, you looked like quite an expert in the art of . . . romance. But can any Vulcan truly know the way to the Ferengi heart?”

“Apart from reinforcing the bond with a large quantity of latinum?”

“Yes, apart from that,” Quark replied somewhat testily.

She tilted her head to one side. “Are you suggesting that Vulcans have no insight into the sexual desires of other species?”

“Look, I know that you Vulcans are very, very smart, and I’m sure you know all about the biology. But the fact is, you don’t even seem to have much insight into the sexual desires of your own species, let alone others. You wrote a pretty good first chapter, I have to admit, but how do I know you can . . . how can I put this . . . uh, sustain that level of erotic tension?”

“It is illogical to discuss at this point,” T’lana said. “Unless—” Suddenly her eyebrows rose, her expression conveying coy surprise. “Unless you are suggesting some sort of demonstration.”

Across the room, Shmenge punctuated the conversation by dropping his padd with a noisy clatter.

Quark feigned indignation. “T’lana, how could you even think I was suggesting such a thing! I’m an honest businessman, looking to make an honest investment.” He cleared his throat and lowered his voice so that Shmenge couldn’t hear him. “Unless, of course, you’re interested—”

T’lana turned away from Quark and went back to reading.

Quark sighed. Well, it was worth a try.

For the next two hours, no one spoke. Quark nearly drifted off and considered retiring to the tiny sleeping chamber in the back, then discarded the thought. He didn’t think it was a good idea to leave Shmenge unsupervised. Finally, he got up and began to walk toward the minireplicator.

It was at that point that Shmenge broke the silence. “Um . . . I think we’re being followed.”

Quark ran over to stand at T’lana’s side as she studied the image of a ship on the navigation monitor. “I recognize that configuration,” she said. “It is Broht’s company yacht. I recommend evasive maneuvers.”

Shmenge shot Quark a what-do-I-do-now? look. “Speed up, you idiot,” said the older Ferengi.

Shmenge increased velocity, but the rented shuttle wasn’t capable of travel faster than warp three. “At this speed, Broht’s ship will overtake us in two point five minutes,” T’lana stated. “Excuse me,” she said, leaning once more over the young Ferengi. She quickly punched in a new heading and the shuttle lurched into a different course.

For a few moments Quark thought that they might have lost Broht. Then the yacht reappeared on the monitor, looking larger than ever. What would Ro do? he thought desperately. And the answer came to him. “Fire photon torpedoes!” he shouted.

“But . . . but sir, this is a passenger shuttle,” Shmenge squeaked. “It has no weapons.”

“You fool!” Quark hissed. “Why didn’t you go for the deluxe model with the laser cannon?”

“But I—” Shmenge started to protest.

T’lana interrupted him. “Broht’s vessel is not armed. However, it is overtaking us.” She said it with such calmness that Quark suddenly worried that she might have led them into a trap.

Shmenge noticed a flashing light on the companel. “He’s hailing us!”

Again Quark attempted to channel Ro’s courage in the face of calamity. “Put him through,” he said in a self-assured tone that did not correspond with the queasy feeling in his stomach.

Shmenge flipped a switch and Broht’s face appeared on the monitor. The Bolian was almost purple with rage. “Quark! Power down your engines. We need to talk.”

“Ardon, imagine running into you out here. A shame I have no time for tea.” He turned to Shmenge. “Keep going. Full speed ahead!”

“Quark! You can’t get away from me,” Broht sputtered.

“I’m sorry, Ardon,” Quark replied. “Can’t hear you. You’re breaking up.”

He waved a hand at Shmenge, signaling him to close communication. However, the terrified apprentice failed to notice; his gaze was fixed straight ahead as he held the shuttle at full speed.

As a result, the communications link remained open, and some of the vilest curses in the quadrant echoed through the cabin.

Then the little light on Shmenge’s panel went dark. “He’s closed communications,” the apprentice said, stating the obvious.

“Good!” said Quark. “Maybe he’s decided to go home.”

“Unlikely,” T’lana responded with a frown. “That would be out of character for Mister Broht.”

Quark chuckled. “Well, maybe he’s realized that he’s met his match. He has no weapons. What can he d—”

Suddenly, the shuttle jolted violently and Quark lurched forward, landing atop a squealing Shmenge. “What the—”

The ship rocked again. Straining, Quark managed to pull himself off his apprentice.

“Hail Broht!” he ordered.

Shmenge, wide-eyed with panic, sat motionless, so T’lana opened the link.

“Broht, whatever you’re doing, stop it!” Quark shrieked. “I have to return this shuttle in one piece.” He turned to glare at Shmenge. “Why didn’t you sign for the extra insurance? Can’t you do anything right?”

Broht’s visage filled the monitor. “That was just a little tap, Quark. Franti suggested that it might get your attention.”

“I’ll sue you for damages!” Quark threatened.

Broht laughed. “You’re in no position to do anything of the kind, Quark. I have a proposition for you: come to a full stop or I’ll have Franti give your vessel more than a little tap!”

“You should comply,” T’lana said calmly.

“What?” Quark spun around to stare at her. “Are you insane? I’m the Ferengi ambassador to Bajor! I have high-level Federation connections! I—”

“We are no longer in Federation territory,” T’lana explained.

“No longer— When did that happen? Shmenge, what did you do?”

“It wasn’t me,” the young Ferengi whimpered. He pointed a trembling finger at T’lana. “She made the course correction. I don’t know where we are right now!”

T’lana drew close to Quark. “Tell Shmenge to come to a full stop now,” she said softly.

“A full stop in the middle of nowhere?” Quark gasped. “What are you playing at?”

“Quark,” T’lana said, taking his hand in hers. “Trust me.”

Quark couldn’t help noticing that she was addressing him in the same dulcet tones that holo-T’lana employed when she spoke to Shmun. The palpable rush of anticipation and apprehension that washed over him was disturbing, to say the least. Whether it was the look in her eyes or the physical contact that made him decide to comply didn’t really matter. It was a sucker move and he knew he was going to regret it. “Shmenge . . . do it.”

A minute later the two ships sat side by side, motionless. “I’m glad you’re finally willing to listen to reason,” Broht said over the comlink. He craned his neck to better see the Vulcan standing behind Quark. “I’m surprised at you, T’lana,” he said. “Imagine my dismay when Franti confirmed my worst suspicions. Conspiring with this bartending dunsel!”

“Dunsel!” spat Quark.

“Conspiring is a harsh accusation, Ardon,” T’lana interrupted. “Quark and I are simply engaged in a private business transaction.”

“It’s an accurate accusation! You’re trying to cut me out of my own franchise! If you’ve written a new installment in the Vulcan Love Slave series, you have an obligation to sell it to me!”

“My previous contract with you was nonexclusive,” she volleyed. “And it is now terminated, so I have no obligation to you whatsoever. Further, you are ignoring the fact that since no one owns the rights to Vulcan Love Slave, it has long been open to universal dispersion.”

“Public domain be damned!” Broht shouted. “You have no right—”

“And neither do you, Ardon,” Quark interjected, unable to contain himself for any longer.

Broht gnashed his teeth in fury, then gradually composed himself. “T’lana, my old friend,” he said in the confident voice he reserved for closing his toughest negotiations. “Why are we fighting? You know I’ll pay you more than that Ferengi will. Surely you can see the logic in extending our relationship. Isn’t it obvious that it will be the more rewarding arrangement in the long run?”

“It is not my decision alone. My business partner also has some say in this transaction.”

Quark looked at her in surprise. He had completely forgotten that back in the bar she’d said she collaborated on the holoprogram. It was a complication he’d ignored at the time and didn’t want to think about right now.

Apparently, neither did Broht. Quark watched in fascination as the Bolian’s rising blood pressure turned the cartilaginous ridge that divided his features a deep purple-black. With a roar of indignation, the publisher turned to Franti. “Ram them!” he ordered.

Quark and Shmenge screamed in unison, but T’lana remained stoic, seemingly disinterested in the carnage that was about to ensue. Her gaze rested on the sensor readings flashing across one of the shuttle’s control panels. “I suggest that you belay that order, Ardon,” she said, gesturing out the shuttle’s forward view port, where the fabric of space began to shimmer and ripple.

“Gentlemen,” she addressed her puzzled fellow passengers, “we have company.”

11

“Wh-what is that?” gasped an awestruck Shmenge.

“Something��s decloaking,” Quark responded nervously. “Something big.”

And then it was in front of them, the biggest ship Quark had ever seen. A ship that made their puny shuttle and Broht’s yacht look like sand fleas. Although Quark had only limited experience in identifying spacecraft, he knew it wasn’t Klingon or Romulan or Dominion. No distinctive color markings or symbology linked the vessel to any particular species.

It was, however, garnished with a large number of weapons ports.

“They—they’re h-h-hailing us,” Shmenge said, hiccuping in horror. “V-v-voice only.”

“Well, for Gint’s sake, don’t make them wait for a response!” Quark said, smacking the correct switch.

A loud metallic voice resonated within the rental shuttle—and at the same time, judging by the alarmed look on Broht’s face, the interior of the publisher’s yacht.

“TRESPASSERS, IDENTIFY YOUR BUSINESS IN THIS SECTOR.”

Quark moved his lips feebly, but no words came out. That gave Broht the opportunity to speak first. “I am Ardon Broht of Broht and Forrester, purveyor of popular holonovels,” said the Bolian. “Perhaps you’ve enjoyed them. Toby the Targ. Dixon Hill. I am attempting to reclaim my rightful property from the persons in that shuttlecraft.”

“WE DO NOT RECOGNIZE OUTSIDERS’ PROPERTY DISPUTES. ALL PROPERTY THAT CROSSES INTO THIS REGION BECOMES OUR PROPERTY. YOU HAVE VIOLATED OUR BORDERS. YOUR VESSEL WILL BE CONFISCATED.”

Broht opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, Quark found his voice. “I am Ambassador Quark, of Quark’s Public House, Café, Gaming Emporium, Holosuite Arcade, and Ferengi Embassy to Bajor. I’m just attempting to get back to my home on Deep Space Nine—”

“WE DO NOT RECOGNIZE YOUR STATUS AS MERCHANT OR DIPLOMAT. BOTH ARE IRRELEVANT IN THIS REGION. YOU HAVE VIOLATED OUR BORDERS. YOUR VESSEL WILL BE CONFISCATED.”

“I protest!” Quark said, incensed. “You have no authority to do this! I have high-level—”

T’lana suddenly placed her hand on his shoulder to stop him. He looked at her dubiously. “Trust me,” she said again.

“Do I have any choice?” he muttered under his breath.

Leaning forward to speak directly into the comm, T’lana enunciated clearly, “Wildflower.”

There was a long pause. Quark and Shmenge exchanged puzzled looks as T’lana calmly waited for a response. Then—

“ACKNOWLEDGED, WILDFLOWER. WHAT IS IT YOU WOULD HAVE US DO?”

“We request passage through your sector. And we would like you to invite Mister Broht to return the way he came.”

Still on the shuttle’s monitor, Broht visibly bristled. “What? How dare you!” he sputtered. “I have every right to—”

Suddenly Franti leaned forward and whispered urgently into Broht’s ear. “What?” Broht said, his color draining. “They’re what?” Broht looked at Quark’s image on his own monitor in astonishment. “You’re doing business with the Orion Syndicate?”

Quark, shocked, turned to T’lana. “We’re doing business with the Orion Syndicate?”

Ignoring him, T’lana spoke directly to the publisher. “Mister Broht, the item you are interested in remains under private negotiation. I request that you do not attempt to interfere. However, it would be logical for you to assume that an opportunity for your publishing house might present itself . . . at a future time.”

“PUBLISHER,” came the voice from the imposing vessel, “YOU MAY DEPART. NOW.”

Broht stiffened, but at Franti’s urging he nodded and allowed the Nausicaan to back his ship away.

“WILDFLOWER,” came the voice once more. “PLEASE CONVEY TO YOUR ASSOCIATE THAT THE DEBT HAS BEEN REPAID.”

“I shall,” T’lana replied.

Quark stared through the transparent aluminum view port at the big, big, BIG ship, unsure of what had just transpired. “T’lana—” he began.

But the anonymous voice interrupted him. “YOU MAY DEPART. NOW.”

T’lana turned to Quark and raised an eyebrow. Quark poked Shmenge. “You heard what the whatever it is said. Get us out of here.”

“Where to?” said Shmenge.

“Resume previous course settings,” T’lana stated. “The initial route that I input when we left Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet. We should arrive at Deep Space Nine in four hours.”

“Deep Space Nine?” Quark stared at her, dumbfounded. “We’ve been heading for Deep Space Nine since we left Wrigley’s?”

“We were until we were required to enlist assistance in dealing with Mister Broht,” T’lana said.

“And you just happened to know that the Orion Syndicate considers these coordinates part of their turf? And they just happened to owe you a favor?”

“Happenstance had nothing to do with it,” T’lana responded as she calmly returned to her padd. “I would, however, recommend that you avoid these coordinates in the future.”

“Count on that,” murmured Quark, sinking into a chair. He briefly allowed himself to ponder what might have previously transpired between T’lana (and her associate) and the Orion Syndicate. Then he realized that the sooner he forgot about the whole thing, the better off he’d be. With a sigh, he activated an auxiliary monitor and utilized the outside sensors to investigate the dings and scrapes that Franti’s nudges had inflicted on the hull. He saw nothing that threatened the shuttle’s integrity, but quite a bit that was guaranteed to add obscene sums to the tab with Wormhole Rent-a-Shuttle.

Rubbing his upper ear, Quark headed for the tiny sleep chamber. He might as well get his money’s worth out of the rental and take a nap. Besides, he felt a pinna ache coming on, and he wanted to be fresh for whatever T’lana had orchestrated on Deep Space 9.

12

“Are you out of your mind?!”

Shmenge winced at the ear-piercing shriek of outrage, glad that, for once, Quark’s ire wasn’t directed at him.

The actual directee—the Tellarite manager of Wormhole Rent-a-Shuttle—merely studied Quark with a bemused expression. “Don’t know what you’re so worked up about, Mister Quark,” he said, stroking his silver beard as he leaned lightly on the counter. “You’re not looking at replacement costs. I already agreed that the shuttle is repairable. I just don’t agree that the repairs should be free. After all, you’re the one who insisted on dropping the expanded insurance.”

Quark swung his baleful gaze in Shmenge’s direction, but the apprentice neatly avoided it by directing his own gaze to a tiny speck on the wall behind the counter. I’m not going to let him blame me for this, he told himself. He should have listened to me.

After a tense moment, Quark released an exasperated sigh. “This is three times as much as it should be!” he grunted.

“Based on whose estimate?” said the Tellarite. “You show me a good mechanic who can restore that hull panel for anywhere near this price and I’ll sign him up—and don’t point me toward your famous Starfleet nephew! You know he won’t do it.” Shmenge relaxed when he heard the Tellarite slide a padd in Quark’s direction. “This is a fair price and you know it.”

“It’s extortion, that’s what it is!” Quark groused as he signed off on the charges and shoved the padd back toward the rental manager. “And by the way, that snail juice in the minireplicator was terrible.”

“Snail juice is always terrible,” the Tellarite replied with a shrug. “Next time try the Aldebaran sour mash. Very tasty.”

Shifting the weight of his overstuffed carry bags, Shmenge followed Quark toward the bar. When they entered the familiar surroundings, he called out, “I’m just going to drop this stuff in my room before I start my shift.”

He’d anticipated a lengthy lecture from Quark about his duties being more important than personal time, but all he heard from the bartender when their paths diverged was a distracted, “Don’t dawdle.” Relieved, Shmenge entered the former employee lounge. Fitting his accumulated booty into the minuscule quarters would be a challenge, but he wasn’t worried. In school he’d been surprisingly good at spatial planning and geometric optimization . . .

Quark looked around the bar and saw the source of his distraction sitting at a small table near the center of the room. He’d expected to find T’lana there, of course. It was his suggestion that she make herself comfortable while he and Shmenge dealt with the rental company.

What he hadn’t expected was the other female at T’lana’s table—Rionoj. A vision in silver and lavender, she was lovely as always and, from the look of things, well acquainted with T’lana. A sultry smile played over the Boslic’s lips as she pressed herself against one of the Vulcan’s slender shoulders to whisper into her shell-shaped ear. T’lana’s expression changed very little at hearing the secret communication, but she nodded in apparent agreement, which, in turn, triggered a throaty chuckle from Rionoj.

As intriguing as the cozy interaction appeared to be—particularly to the male servers hovering nearby, their mouths agape—something about the exchange made Quark nervous. Why do I get the feeling I’m being set up? he thought.

He approached the table cautiously. “So . . . ladies—I believe we have business to discuss.”

Rionoj flashed a smile. “Quark, it’s good to see you again—particularly in one piece!”

Quark faked a smile of his own. “Yes, I’m happy to be that way myself. So, do we have a transaction to negotiate, or has this all been one big joke on poor old Quark?”

“No joke, Quark,” Rionoj soothed. “I promised a quality product and I’m here to deliver. Of course, it’s going to cost you a bit more than it would have a few days ago.”

Quark felt his temperature rising. “The ‘quality product’ you offered me a few days ago was just a tease,” he accused.

“A simple tactic to incite your interest,” T’lana confirmed. “We determined that you would require a ‘risky road,’ as you Ferengi put it, in order to convince you of the product’s profit potential.”

Rionoj nodded. “The actual program, the whole thing,” she said, “is here now. In fact it’s already installed in Holosuite Number Two, cued up and waiting for you.”

Quark followed her gaze to the bar’s upper level. “And suppose I don’t like it,” he said testily.

“An unlikely outcome,” commented T’lana. “But if that is your appraisal, we have, as you know, an alternate buyer.”

Quark didn’t favor her with a response. I’ll be damned if I’ll let Ardon Broht have it after all I’ve been through. Leaving the two women at their table, he headed for the holosuite.

13

Quark hesitated at the entrance to Holosuite Two. He’d hunted down this prize with the ferocity of a sehlat on the scent of a reeta-hawk. Now it was here for the taking, his to devour, to slake his long-prolonged desires. And yet—

Something about this deal isn’t exactly lompoc, he thought for perhaps the tenth time since he’d left Rionoj and T’lana in the bar.

He’d traveled halfway across the quadrant, accruing unthinkable expenses far beyond the original asking price, only to return home empty-handed (albeit with an extraordinarily beautiful Vulcan thespian/programmer/writer in tow). To find, waiting on his virtual doorstep, exactly what he’d been searching for.

It just didn’t feel right.

No, strike that. It just didn’t feel . . . over. Didn’t feel like all the pieces of the puzzle were in place.

Quark didn’t like puzzles. Nothing about them ever proved profitable.

On the other hand, a whole universe of potential profit awaited him on the other side of Door Number Two. He could stand here having an internal debate the rest of the day, or he could cross the threshold.

Taking a deep breath, he spoke into the companel: “Run program.”

The door opened. He stepped inside—

—to find, as before, the woodlands of Ferenginar surrounding him, glistening through a veil of intense frippering. Quark plucked a mushroom that sprouted from the bark of a marrow tree . . . then tossed it aside. He was there to examine the product, and he wouldn’t allow petty algorithmic tangibles to distract him.

Everything was the same as the first time. The beautiful river of latinum flowed nearby as T’lana’s spectacular simulacrum strutted sensually across the fungi floor, heading straight toward him. Quark was tempted to linger. His curiosity about this chapter’s climax was palpable, but he reminded himself again that he hadn’t come up here for pleasure. He had a task to perform. Rule Number Two-hundred-eighteen, he recited internally. Always know what you’re buying.

“Computer, skip to another chapter.”

“Sequential or random selection?” questioned the computer.

He thought for a moment, then said, “Random.”

The peaceful setting blurred into a shifting collage of colors and shapes, accompanied by a spellbinding chorus of groans, giggles, and apparent exclamations of exultation. Then—

—He was in a dark, tiny chamber, lying on a low, round bed of satiny pillows and a plush throw of striped kahzinka hide. Around him, the walls were bright red, the rug black, the corners encased in shadow. There was no other furniture, no mirror, no window. The walls of the room were unadorned . . . except for a single, gleaming hoist ring, just low enough for a Ferengi male to reach—if he stood on tiptoe with his arms stretched above his head. Looped through it was a long metal chain of gold-pressed latinum. The lustrous links cascaded across the floor, seemingly flowing toward him like that precious river where he’d seen the beautiful Love Slave.

Suddenly Quark gasped with delight. On each of his wrists was a latinum bracelet, adorned with inlaid jewel-encrusted silhouettes of unclad female Ferengi. Each bracelet was fastened with a curious clasp, ancient mechanisms consisting of rotating wheels and sliding bolts with a shackle and stem. They seemed incredibly complicated for bracelets. These must be worth a fortune, he thought, forgetting for a moment where he was. They’d be the talk of the bar if I wore them while presiding over the tongo wheel. Examining the clasps more closely, he saw that they were linked to the chains . . . which he followed to where they crisscrossed over his thighs . . . and coiled around his ankles . . . and curled across the edge of the bed . . . and traveled up the wall . . .

To where they looped through the ring embedded in the wall.

These aren’t bracelets, he suddenly realized. They’re manacles!

The latinum lust that had fogged Quark’s thoughts lifted. A sense of foreboding had been lingering in his belly; now it congealed into palpable fear. I’m a prisoner! he thought. This isn’t supposed to be the story of Shmun the slave! What are they going to do to me? Is this a snuff holoprogram?!?!

As his mind was going through contortions trying to figure out what horrible fate was awaiting him, he heard footsteps in the hallway. Heavy footsteps, accompanied by muffled clanking and an inexplicable, unsavory sloshing. The sounds were growing louder and louder, UNTIL THEY WERE RIGHT OUTSIDE HIS DOOR!

His heart was palpitating so rapidly that he thought it was going to explode. He found his voice and frantically called out, “Computer, skip ahead! Skip ahead!”

Then, just as frantically, he shouted, “No! Wait!” as he saw T’lana, her spectacular body clearly naked beneath smooth, translucent coveralls, enter the cell carrying two large golden buckets. She dropped them with a thud, and liquid splattered over the sides, soaking the dark rug. “It’s time for me to give you your bath, Shmun,” she was saying. “Let me unfasten your—”

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hasty, Quark thought as the room spun into a blur of cacophonic images. He could go back, of course . . . But no. He knew it was time to move on.

After several more stops along the way, he felt he’d confirmed that the program was of the high quality he’d hoped. Rionoj, apparently, had told the truth. Everything seemed to be here.

He needed to check only one thing more.

“Computer,” he instructed, “play the final chapter.”

14

The floor of the darkened room swayed beneath his feet. He reached out to steady himself and noticed that the wall felt curved. I’m in a boat, he decided, and he adapted his stance to ride the shifting movement. As his pupils adjusted to the light, he detected a small ladder and climbed it to the deck above, stepping into open air.

But it was hardly a boat; he was aboard a magnificent yacht, bobbing peacefully on a smooth body of liquid—latinum once again! Many of the scenes that he’d skipped through in the holonovel had featured lustrous liquid scenarios.

Maybe this whole adventure takes the user along a latinum passage, he thought, his pulse racing. Maybe it flows all the way to the Divine Treasury!

The yacht was anchored in a lagoon at the base of a tall canyon. Just ahead, mist welled up in the spray of precious glistening falls that thundered from high, dropping to fill the lagoon. The canyon walls glowed amid a verdant tapestry of moss and vines. A rainbow arched overhead, reflecting and adding to the silvery-amber tones of the glassy liquid.

Ah. So beautiful. So peaceful. If only there was such a place . . .

As Quark leaned over the rail to admire the color and consistency of the buoyant body, his ears discerned a lilting laughter that filtered through the mist and vines. A gangplank reached from the deck of the yacht to a row of small stepping-stones protruding from the river. Steadying his nerves, Quark stepped onto the first stone, found it stable, then gingerly tested the rest until he’d reached the shore. A narrow path curved around and behind the falls. Quark followed it, relishing the tingle of excitement coursing down his spine. Behind the coruscant curtain, the path led to a cleft in the canyon wall, just wide enough for a man to enter. He paused, took a deep, quivering breath, and stepped through the entrance into—

—a cavernous grotto carved within a mountain of glimmering gold. Precious liquid latinum percolated through the rough walls, rippling downward in delicate streams. Majestic columns stood tall in a central chamber, as if holding the ceiling in place. From the tops of the columns, continuous streams of latinum spiraled smoothly to the floor, then merged with a maze of streams that collected in a pool at the center of the room. All around him, liquid dripped with a steady, rhythmic beat, as if counting off the value, droplet by precious droplet.

If ever there was a sound sweeter than the clado’s song, thought Quark, this is it. He moved deeper into the room, the cheerful splish-splashes of his footsteps forming a pleasant counterpoint to the staccato of the droplets—only to come to a sudden halt as he spotted what was at the far end of the enclosure.

Females. The back wall of the grotto was covered with ravishing females. Dozens and dozens of them, each a perfect specimen of her species. Large. Small. Lean and angular. Pleasantly padded. Silky. Furry. Stripy. Pink. Green. Cerulean blue. A maelstrom of pulchritude, draped over luxurious cushions and velvet-upholstered banquettes installed within the nooks and crevices of the grotto wall. They wore very little—just enough to titillate the imagination—and they spoke in low, musical tones that drifted languidly through the moist air.

This, he realized, was the source of the laughter he’d heard earlier. A gaggle of gals having a lovely day at . . . whatever it was. A spa? A resort?

No, he thought, it’s a lounge. The most fabulous lounge in the galaxy. What I could do with this place!

He smacked his lips at the thought, then smacked them again when two extremely lovely Deltans approached him, their eyes raking over him with obvious interest.

“Hello, ladies,” Quark said. “Can a thirsty traveler get a drink around here?”

“Libations are served free of charge to those who play the game,” said one of them.

“The buy-in is five strips . . .” began the other, abruptly pausing to giggle as a drop of latinum fell from a stalactite to land with a splat onto her smooth pate. “Oooh,” she murmured, and her skin visibly quivered as the precious droplet slid down her brow.

She’s ticklish, Quark thought with a start. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. Fighting the urge to lick her forehead, he stammered, “Um . . . five . . . uh . . . five strips, you said?”

He looked down at the wardrobe that the holoprogram had assigned him as Shmun. He had no pockets, no pouch, nowhere to hold money. “I don’t seem to have any strips,” he said, “but perhaps we can find another method of payment.”

“We’ll accept those,” responded the first Deltan, pointing toward his wrists. “They’ll work fine in leveraging your buy-in.”

Quark glanced down, then raised his hands in surprise. He was still wearing the golden manacles from the earlier chapter. “These? I didn’t even notice that I was wearing . . .”

Before he could react, the ticklish Deltan retrieved a pair of golden chains from a niche in the rock face and clipped them to the manacles. “Come in,” she said, pulling the startled Ferengi forward.

Again? he thought. Oh, what the hell. It’s only a holosuite program. What’s the worst that could happen?

The Deltan females quickly, and rather roughly, pulled him to a circular platform. Stumbling after them, Quark saw all the languid ladies lean forward on their cushy settees to stare at him and whisper among themselves. He grinned and gave them a friendly wave.

When he’d reached the base of the platform, the ticklish Deltan gestured upward. He followed the gesture, noting that the top of the platform was at least a foot above his head. He looked around for a ladder, but there was none to be found.

Do they want me up there? he wondered—and then he was off his feet, pulled upward by the tightened chains and a number of helpful hands that cupped his buttocks to hoist him over the edge.

Turning to take in his surroundings, he felt a presence that made him straighten up. T’lana was standing directly behind him, barely dressed in diaphanous lace, a coy smile on her lips. She was exquisite, easily the most beautiful woman in a room filled with beautiful women. And that smile, he knew, was the smile of a Love Slave—not just any Love Slave, but the renowned Vulcan Love Slave. She might pretend to run away, she might lead him on, she might attempt to take his money—but she would always come back to him, begging for forgiveness. He had little doubt. She was his. He began to relax and enjoy himself, thinking that his quest for this program was worth the time and expense after all.

T’lana spoke, her voice as smooth and sweet as first-pressed kanar. “I’ve been waiting for you, Shmun,” she said. “Would you like to play with me?”

“Oh, yes,” he stated truthfully. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Well, then, let us begin,” she said. “Acquire!”

The girls of the grotto joined in a roar of approval. Most of them by now had gathered around the rim of the platform, looking up at him longingly.

Stand in line, ladies, he thought. I’m still working on taming the first one.

“Shmun.”

Quark turned his attention back to T’lana.

“I said, ‘Acquire,’ ” she repeated patiently. “Well, Shmun? What will it be?”

He stood there for a second, uncertain. She sounded like she wanted to play tongo. But if he’d learned anything over the years, it was how foolhardy one would be to jump into a tongo game without first assessing the situation. There was only one logical move.

“Evade!” he called out.

Instantly he heard the clinking cacophony of metal hitting metal—gold-pressed latinum slips being tossed into a very large bowl at the center of the platform by the appreciative ladies around the table.

And then the platform began to move; the ladies were jointly spinning it as though it were a big tongo wheel—which, he finally realized, it most certainly was. The room briefly became a blur—until the wheel stopped, and he found himself staring into T’lana’s magnificent almond-shaped eyes. “Buy at five seventy-five!” she said. “And index the exchange at ten!”

Big stakes, Quark thought. Realizing he didn’t know how much he held in the bank, he volleyed, “I’d like to sell at fifty-three.”

T’lana chuckled; Quark was unsure whether she appreciated his tactical prowess or felt amusement over the minuscule size of his wager. Before he could decide, the ladies again spun the wheel.

Quark barely managed to maintain his footing as the velocity picked up. Around him, the grotto turned into a glistening golden blur, spinning, spinning, spinning. When the wheel finally jerked to a stop, Quark lost his balance and felt himself falling—

—only to feel himself pulled upright as T’lana yanked on the chains attached to his bracelets. Her face was inches from his now, both beautiful and, truthfully, just a little intimidating.

“Uh, thanks,” he murmured as he tried to take a wobbly step to increase the distance between them. But increasing the distance wasn’t in her plans.

She pulled the chains again, brought him so close that he could smell the exotic Vulcan oil that anointed her flesh. “Confront,” she said, her voice sultry and oh so inviting.

Excited murmuring rose from the circle of females who waited for Shmun’s response.

He took a deep breath and said, “I’m converting my reserves and . . .”

“You have no reserves,” came a voice from deeper in the grotto.

He glanced in the direction of the anonymous voice. “I most certainly do. They’re—” He glanced around the table. She was right, he had nothing . . .

Except, of course, for the manacles.

“I’m converting these!” he said defiantly, thrusting his wrists toward T’lana. “Unshackle and confront!”

T’lana’s eyes widened and she immediately released him. She seemed impressed. The circle of ladies—who chorused “Oooooooh!”—also seemed impressed.

Most of them, anyway.

One of them—the female sitting in a distant box seat near the far wall—was not “Ooooooohing.” She was laughing. “Oh,” she chortled, “oh! That’s rich! You can’t convert what you don’t have. You already leveraged them as your buy-in to the game. You’re going to lose.”

Quark scowled. Was this a glitch in the program? This female character was intruding into his holofantasy. T’lana and the other tongo players had been perfectly willing to give him a pass on making the same wager twice—at least they had until this loudmouth had butted in! Where was this leading, anyway?

Quark strained his eyes, but the box seat was too far away to see who—or what—was mocking him. Yet he knew just what to do. Call the mysterious female’s bluff.

“There’s more than one way to win at tongo!” Quark declared. “I’ll wager”—he paused, thinking—“my Love Slave!”

The women of the wheel uttered a collective gasp. This was the riskiest move of all, one that could leave him with everything . . .

. . . or nothing.

They spun the wheel. Looking at T’lana’s face, Quark was surprised to see horror etched into those delicate features.

She cares, he thought. She actually cares for me. For Shmun, I mean. I always wondered . . .

The velocity of the spin increased, and this time he fell, landing on the platform with a loud ka-thump! He looked up to see T’lana standing over him, studying him dispassionately as the platform continued to move.

Around and around and around he went. As he passed each of the women at the edge of the table, he reached out, hoping for a helping hand. But at his touch, each one vanished in a shimmer of photons. Until only one woman remained, her face in shadow.

“Oh, Quarkie! How I’ve missed you,” she said.

He had heard that voice before. He remembered the tone of that voice. It made him angry . . . and happy . . . and confused, all at the same time. Then the room stopped spinning, and he saw her clearly, a lovely Ferengi female, her clothing so very different from the skimpy veils that had delicately shaded the others, her business suit nonconforming among the gauzes and lace. A woman’s stylish business suit—with pants, no less! Just like those worn after his idiot brother allowed his mother and the other traitorous members of her gender to ruin Ferenginar.

Quark sat up, feeling more than a little woozy. Had he been hallucinating? The room was mostly deserted now. T’lana remained, kneeling at his side, stroking his brow with one hand—and with the other, sneaking the last of the latinum slips from the tongo bowl into a handy pouch. “Oh, my poor Shmun,” she cooed.

Quark grabbed the hand that was filching the latinum. “You can’t have those,” he said peevishly. “This game isn’t over.”

T’lana’s succulent lips twisted into a sheepish smile. “I’ll make it up to you,” she whispered, leaning close enough to touch his ear with the tip of her warm, moist tongue.

Quark gasped and closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, T’lana was gone—and so, predictably, was the latinum.

She loves to play hard to get, he thought. Well, I’m up for a little hide-and-seek.

But as he slid off the platform, he nearly ran into the female Ferengi. And she was still wearing that distasteful business suit!

And to his surprise, he recognized her.

“Pel!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing in my program?”

15

“Hello, Quark,” Pel said, a fond smile playing about her lips. Her eyes—the deep, rich color of spring mud that he recalled—twinkled as she stared up at him. He’d forgotten how petite she was, yet shapely in all the right places—more noticeable now that she was no longer masquerading as a male waiter.

Damn. Quark felt a tug from somewhere deep inside his belly. He’d forgotten how cute she was without those ridiculous prosthetic lobes. He cleared his throat self-consciously and repeated, “Pel, what’re you doing in my program?”

She actually giggled—giggled!—and Quark, incensed, silently answered his own question, allowing the emotional “realization” to crash down upon him like a wall of counterfeit latinum bricks. “Oh, I knew it was too good to be true,” he moaned. “This is a big joke, just like I thought! What did I ever do to deserve such cruelty—”

Pel pressed a finger against his lips to silence him. It felt, Quark noted idly, remarkably like a real finger, not some replicated artificial body part. “Oh, Quark,” she said, “it’s not a joke. And I’m certainly not in Lust’s Latinum Lost! I’m just interacting with the program, the same as you are. Look, I’ll show you. Computer, end program.”

Instantly, the elaborate trappings of the program vanished, leaving only Quark and Pel in the middle of an inactive holosuite grid.

“You are here,” Quark murmured, bewildered. “But why are you here? I haven’t heard from you in years.”

“I thought that was the way you wanted it,” she replied, a touch of recrimination in her voice. “It’s not like you gave me any encouragement to keep in touch, or told me to stop by if I was in the neighborhood.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “Which I wasn’t anyway. I’ve been busy accumulating profit on my own, just like I said I would.”

Quark refused to feel guilty. “On your own, eh? Well, the last I heard, you were in some sort of ‘business relationship’ with Brunt.” His mouth twisted as he allowed the words to reflect all the innuendo he could muster. “I suppose he put you up to this.”

To his surprise, Pel chuckled in delight. “Oh, Quarkie! You kept tabs on my whereabouts! You do care, in your unrepentant chauvinistic way! You almost sound jealous!”

“Jealous?” Quark sputtered. “Me? Don’t be ridiculous. I just feel sorry for anyone involved with that gort hog! He’ll take you for every slip you manage to earn.”

She released a very unladylike snort. “You don’t have to tell me what a gort hog he is. I used him, that’s all, and I got out of that partnership as soon as I could. Took my share and left. Made some very lucrative investments that are still paying off—” She paused, realizing they’d gotten away from the subject at hand. “But I didn’t come here to talk about Brunt,” she said softly.

Quark eyed her warily. “What did you come here for?”

Her smile broadened. “Isn’t it obvious, Quarkie? I wanted to see your reaction to the holoprogram I produced.”

Quark’s jaw dropped. “You produced?” He gestured at the now blank walls of the room. “You produced Lust’s Latinum Lost?”

“Yes, of course. Do you think only a male can produce a holonovel program? I may not have lobes the size of yours, but you know that I’m smarter than most of the men on Ferenginar, and twice as smart as Ardon Broht. I had the brains to go into production and I accumulated the resources to finance my operation. All I had to do was find potentially profitable subject matter. And that’s where you were a big help.”

“Me?” Quark’s head was spinning. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. He recalled now that being around Pel previously had made him feel a little light-headed, even when she was in male drag. Before he knew that he was a she, he’d written it off to being dazzled by the precocious waiter’s business acumen. Later he realized that it was a natural hormonal response to an attractive, receptive Ferengi female. Now the feeling was coming back full force, particularly in the wake of viewing that erotic holoprogram. It was almost enough to knock him off his game.

Almost. But not quite.

“What do you mean I was a big help?” he asked, forcing himself to think rationally.

“Well, I remembered how fond you were of the original Vulcan Love Slave story and its silly sequels,” Pel said. “And that’s what gave me the idea for my first holopublication. I put together a team to develop it. I needed a distributor who knew how to transport merchandise in and out of tricky situations—”

“Rionoj,” he grunted, shaking his head in disbelief at his own gullibility.

Pel nodded. “And then I found someone who not only was an excellent programmer but also was extremely familiar with the subject matter.”

“T’lana,” Quark muttered, not liking the way this was going.

“T’lana,” she confirmed. “And that saved me the bother of finding a new actress to serve as the Vulcan Love Slave holomatrix. Since the core audience for VLS already adores her, that’s built-in revenue. I got a package deal on her services: programming, acting, and writing, all for a very reasonable fee—and a small royalty. Nothing outrageous.”

“Great,” he grumbled. “That’s just great.” Something occurred to him. “Wait—T’lana told me she was just the co-writer.” His eyes widened in horror. “The other writer—it can’t be Rionoj. She can barely compose a comprehensible bill of lading. It—it’s you?”

He’d never heard anything so disgusting. A Ferengi female writing about . . . about . . . money! And sex! If there was one thing worse than a female making money and having sex whenever she pleased, it was writing about it!

Yet Pel looked insufferably pleased with herself. “Yep. I wrote most of the scenarios for Shmun’s . . . interests, shall we say? Because we did want it to appeal to the Ferengi consumers, and no one knows more about what a Ferengi male is interested in than a Ferengi fe-male!” Pel chortled. “T’lana wrote everything related to the Vulcan Love Slave’s behavior and motivation. After all, who would know more about Vulcan sensuality than a Vulcan?”

“Why would customers care about that?” Quark growled.

Pel gave Quark a scornful look. “I know you’re not stupid, Quark, so stop pretending you are. It’s not always about Shmun’s satisfaction, you know! This is almost the twenty-fifth century. Life is changing on Ferenginar! Even Gint understood that markets change with the times. And Broht and Forrester have been overlooking a huge market with their VLS programs.”

Quark attempted to follow her train of thought . . . and failed. “Vulcans?” he guessed.

“Fe-males!” Pel corrected, clearly resisting the urge to throttle him. “My partners and I are working on a whole line of holoprograms aimed at fe-males. Rionoj has been doing some preliminary marketing. She’s getting tremendous interest from holo facilities in the Dopterian and Kobheerian sectors.”

“Small potatoes,” scoffed Quark. “Good luck trying to sell them on Ferenginar!”

“Oh, we won’t need luck,” Pel retorted. “Rionoj has a meeting with Leeta next week!”

Quark opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind. He knew as well as Pel that a line of programs aimed at Ferenginar’s distaff populace would appeal to Leeta. And that Bajoran bimbo likely would convince her husband the nagus to buy into the concept.

Fine. Let Ferengi society crumble under Rom’s rule. Quark’s Bar would continue to hold out as the bastion of traditional Ferengi values. “Well, they won’t be in this arcade,” he said with a scowl.

Pel sighed. “I’d think twice about that if I were you, Quark. Good customers are as rare as latinum,” she said, quoting Rule Number Fifty-Seven. “Half your customers down in the bar are fe-males. Wouldn’t you like to profit from them up here as well?”

When he didn’t respond, Pel’s expression softened to one of compassion. She took his hand in hers. “Well, you can think about that for a while. In the meantime, may I assume that you’re still interested in Lust’s Latinum Lost?”

“You may,” he stated. “But not if you’re going to turn around and sell it to Broht as well. I need an edge—my business is dying here.”

Pel considered. “How about this? We’ll give you a six-month exclusive. No one but you will have the program during that time.”

“Not even the nagus.”

Pel nodded. “Not even the nagus.”

Quark thought about it. Six months was more than fair. “Okay. But what’s it going to cost me?”

Pel’s smile was very broad, her teeth very pointy. “Twenty-four bars.”

“Twenty-four! It was ten before!” He feigned outrage—but truthfully, he was quite relieved. It was less than he’d imagined. The program was going to make him a lot of latinum.

“Twenty-four,” she repeated, “plus two percent of the gate while it’s exclusively available at Quark’s. Plus the consulting fee you owe T’lana. Plus T’lana’s protection fee—for saving your butt from Broht. And from the Orions. Oh, and there’s the matter of Rionoj’s finder’s fee, for bringing it to your attention in the first place.”

Quark sputtered, but it was all for show. He knew that the bigger the smile, the sharper the knife—yet all Quark could see in Pel’s toothy grin was affection.

“Just tell me one thing. If you hadn’t screwed up that last chapter by interfering with the scripted story line, would Shmun have won that tongo game?”

“Oh, yes. Quite handily. And he’d have won the complete admiration of every lady in that grotto, particularly T’lana’s.”

Quark’s lobes tingled at the thought. “Just their . . . admiration?” he persisted.

Pel blushed prettily. “Oh, Quark, such a literalist. Use your imagination. Let’s just say that Shmun gets everything he’s hoping for.” She paused. Then, with a wicked gleam in her eye, she added, “Of course, that’s only one variation. If a fe-male plays the holoprogram, it all turns out very different.”

Quark narrowed his eyes. “Different how?”

Pel narrowed her eyes back at him. “Let’s just say Shmun gets everything he deserves. Although frankly, I think he comes to enjoy that nearly as much—”

“I don’t think I want to hear any more about that,” Quark said hastily. He didn’t like the idea of holoprograms that catered to female fantasies. Yet, in his heart, he knew Pel was right. His profits would go through the roof.

Resigned, he stepped forward to press his thumb firmly against her padd.

Pel stepped forward too, and pressed her nose against his. “I’m waiving my personal fee this time,” she cooed softly, caressing one of his lobes. “It’s worth it to look into your eyes again.”

Quark wasn’t entirely sure that he believed her, but for that one particular moment in time—and actually for several additional moments after that—he didn’t care whether it was true or not.

16

A fortnight passed.

A great deal can happen in a fortnight. An intergalactic war can start. A kingdom can fall. A fortune can be lost . . .

. . . or found.

At Quark’s Public House, Café, Gaming Emporium, Holosuite Arcade, and Ferengi Embassy, business was looking up. The clado, metaphorically at least, were most definitely fripping.

Bone weary after spending a long day battling the recalcitrant tachyon detector in a Heisenberg compensator, Nog wandered into the establishment, thinking he’d grab a quick bowl of chilled tube grubs before he hit the hay. To his surprise, every table in the café was occupied, with the overflow crowd gathered three deep around the bar.

He whistled appreciatively as he worked his way over to the far end of the bar, where Quark was punching numbers into a padd. “Wow, Uncle,” he said. “You weren’t kidding about that holosuite program!”

“Took a few days to get the word out, but the targeted marketing is starting to pay off,” Quark responded.

“Targeted marketing” was his uncle’s way of saying he’d bribed longtime customers to mention the program to their friends and acquaintances when they left the station. A tried-and-true Ferengi business technique.

“And Treir’s been talking it up on Bajor,” Quark added.

“I’m surprised to see so many non-Ferengi in here,” Nog said, noting beings of pink, orange, blue, and green in the crowd. He did a double take. “And fe-males!” he gasped. “They’re all here for Vulcan Love Slave IV?”

“So it would seem,” Quark said with a shrug. “Pel told me she’d aimed for a broader audience than the previous producers. I dislike saying it, but maybe she knew what she was talking about.”

Nog smiled to himself. I never thought I’d see the day when he’d admit that! Maybe he’s finally starting to change with the times.

Suddenly Hetik appeared on the landing outside the holosuites. “Number Forty-Seven!” he called down to the main level of the bar. “Forty-Seven—you’re up!”

As Nog watched, a portly hew-mon made his way toward the stairs, his friends smacking him on the back in an apparent display of camaraderie. “Show her who’s boss, Slim!” shouted one. “Don’t tucker her out!” bellowed another. “I wanna show that sweet little Vulcan a thing or two when I get in there!”

Typical hew-mons, Nog thought, shaking his head. Valuing the carnal over the pecuniary aspects of the program.

Still, there were times when the carnal had its allure. And Nog had heard that Lust’s Latinum Lost was quite compelling. “I—uh—I was going to put my name on the waiting list,” he began tentatively, “but the way things look, I don’t think I’ll get in before I’m an old man!” He laughed self-consciously.

“Um-hmm,” murmured Quark, still absorbed in his padd.

“I don’t suppose there’s a way to get my name moved up a little higher on the list—?”

“Twelve slips,” Quark said without looking up. “You can pay Hetik.”

Nog’s jaw dropped. “Twelve slips! But I’m family!”

“Rule Number Six,” said Quark, firmly meeting his nephew’s disappointed gaze. “I don’t need to explain that, do I?”

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.

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ISBN 978-1-4767-7931-7

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Acknowledgments

About the Authors

Copyright