Star Trek Deep Space 9 22 Vengeance

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CHAPTER

QUARK--TEMPORARILY BARLESS, unbusy, at loose ends--

walked a frenzied pattern around and around the de-

serted Promenade, trying not to notice the empty kiosks,

locked doors, and dimmed or missing welcome signs. He

felt his face flush; he knew he was a bright, pinkish

orange color that would doubtless elicit a double-sneer

and cutting remark from Liquidator Brunt, if they were

on speaking terms. Never before had the Ferengi bar-

tender debased himself so thoroughly... parading

around the Promenade wearing a sandwich-board adver-

tisement! I might as well be as naked as a female under

here, he thought with some bitterness, though he wore

his best suit in a futile effort to recapture a shred of

dignity. But of course, no one could see it past the

flashing lights and animated holoeharacters cavorting

across his chest and back. No, they were all too busy

drinking up and having a smoking time at the holomated

Quark's Place.

Grim-faced, the Ferengi quick-walked around and

around, hoping to drum up the merest smidgen of

business. One customer! Is that too much to ask? One,

stupid freighter captain, a passing smuggler, even a hu-

man/He was aware that the cheery image of unclothed,

prancing nymphs and satyrs having a grand old time at

the bacchanalia on his sandwich board contrasted

sharply with the bitter, warning snarl on his face;

Quark's lip curled back from a set of teeth razor-

sharpened that morning in a frenzy of ablution. But he

couldn't stop himself from baring his naked fury. With

the general evacuation, Quark had not had one, single

customer in three days--well, just one: Morn, of course.

Already hurting more than he would admit from being

cast off the loving accounts of the Ferengi Business

Alliance, now he had to admit that he was failing at the

one piece of identity he had left: Quark was a failure as a

businessman.

By the Profits/Why not just apprentice myself to Rom

and make the humiliation complete? Or show up on Nog's

doorstep at the hu-man Academy and say "Good morn-

ing, Nephew--I'd like to enlist/"

Instead Quark walked, not quite staring at the empty

shops, abandoned enterprise zones, lonely benches, and

somnambulant security guards. Constable Odo stood

near one of the benches, a spot from which he could see a

quarter of the Promenade, from Garak's clothier's--not

even Quark had patronized the Cardassian's shop lately;

he had no money even for a new suit!--all the way

around to Quark's Place, at whose flashing lights and

enticing holomation the Ferengi stubbornly refused to

look.

"Still carrying around that ridiculous, obscene bill-

board?" growled the constable.

"No, I died about three hours ago, Odo; this is my

ghost you're talking to."

"I thought Ferengi went to the Divine Treasury when

they died. Weren't you greedy enough?"

Quark stiflened and stopped, glaring at the tall, aus-

tere, and now thoroughly solid constable--a fancy term

for cop. "Greed is never enough, Odo. A true Ferengi

combines greed with pure corruption and a passion for

staying out of other people's business unless there's a

profit to be made. I'm pleased to note that you fail all

three tests of Ferengi character."

Odo snorted, his "hnh!" indicating he had been bested

by the Ferengi, as usual. "Take off that ridiculous sign!"

he commanded, to no purpose, as usual.

"Why should I? Is there a law against advertising a

perfectly legal, perfectly above-the-table business?"

"You look utterly absurd. Who are you advertising to?

And you're contributing to the net ugliness of this

station--"

"That's like contributing to the bad temper of a

Klingon. And who is being disturbed?"

"I'm tired of that thing flashing in my eyes. Take it off!.

Consider that an order."

"You have no authority to give such an order!"

"Then consider it a... a favor." The constable rolled

the word around his mouth as though it had a disagree-

able flavor.

"A favor?" demanded Quark, incredulous. "You want

the sign gone? Fine. How much is it worth to you?"

"What?"

"Everyone has his price... even dear, old Constable

Odo. How much is your sanity worth to you?"

"I would think you could remove it out of simple

courtesy!"

"Well, that's not the Ferengi way, is it? How do you

expect me to get to the Divine Treasury if I go around

doing favors for every Tom, Dick, and Odo?"

"Quark, someday, I hope to see you thrown out an

airlock, drifting away like yesterday's garbage. You'll beg

me to rescue you, and you know what will happen?"

"The alarm clock will go off, and you'll wake up."

"Hnh!" Odo stalked away, hands clasped behind his

2 3

back. Quark smiled grimly; he's as bored to death as 1

am./

Ferengi and constable had a symbiosis that very nearly

allowed each to read the other's mind. Odo fretted,

Quark knew, because the dangers that menaced Deep

Space Nine were wholly beyond the constable's ability to

affect them. Odo understood all manner of internal

disruptions, from simple drunkenness and assault to

full-scale riots, from burglary to sex crimes--some races

that visited the Federation had not even the concept of

self-control--to homicide to religious discrimination;

Odo had gotten much experience dealing with that

particular crime now that Bajor was such a powerful

force on the station. Odo understood financial misman-

agement of all sorts, from thievery to fraud to high-end

smuggling operations, much to Quark's chagrin.

But the constable knew nothing, absolutely nothing,

about war and invasion. He was as useless in defending

the station against an attack by his own people, the

Founders, as a hu-man would be to judge a Ferengi civil-

court action.

Now that Odo was gone, Quark peeled the sandwich

board off and threw it to the ground, as he had been

dying to do until Odo started barking orders. Massaging

his aching shoulders, he gave the board a savage kick,

shorting out one quadrant of the holomation: now the

nymphs coupled with satyrs, headed toward Quark's,

and vanished into a mysterious, enticing black square.

That might even have been more effective at drawing a

crowd to Quark's Place... were there any crowd to

draw, that is.

The billboard had been a last-ditch attempt by the

Ferengi to maintain his sanity. He had let go all his

employees. Why pay Dabo girls to spin the wheel for an

empty bar? Why pay busboys to clean tables that had not

been dirtied for days? Now Quark faced the prospect of

living on his replicatot rations, of all things! Like a hu-

man!

And all it had taken to empty Deep Space Nine was a

single, nasty encounter with the Jem'Hadar on a planet

altogether too near the wormhole for the comfort of the

cowardly, sheeplike civilians living on the station. One

battle, and it wasn't even conclusive!

But the mob, the "mobile class," had lived up to its

name by quickly booking passage on any and every ship

leaving the station for points closer to the central maw of

the mass of tentacles that was the Federation... as

though that would save them if the Founders really did

come through the wormhole again.

"Miserable consumers!" shouted the Ferengi, sitting

on one of the many, many unoccupied benches, though

there was nobody in earshot. "How dare they just leave?

If they have no concern for their own career options,

can't they at least have some consideration for me, their

hardworking, profiteering bartender?" No one an-

swered.

Quark stared at the flashing sign at his feet, felt the

eerie silence, even the pulse of the station reactors, many

levels down, generally not noticeable above the roar of

the mob. Maybe Rom was right. Maybe, in this misera-

ble, altruistic, hu-man Federation it made sense to have

a trade to fall back on, something other than business.

Quark's own, personal modification of the Sixth Rule of

Acquisition read "Never allow the hatred of family to

stand in the way of opportunity." After all, Quark didn't

live on Ferenginar anymore, did he?

And never wouM again, echoed an unwanted voice in

his head, the voice of Brunt.

Quark shook his head. It takes more than a little

adversity to hurl this Ferengi out of orbit. Still, Quark's

brother was pretty busy, even now: Master Chief Miles

Edward O'Brien had Rom hopping all over the station,

repairing every electronic combat device and sharpening

the station's teeth.

Quark snorted, then jumped as he realized he sounded

just like Odo. Two coins in a purse, he thought bitterly. I

wonder what my brother--

"... what my brother is doing now?" asked Rom.

Chief O'Brien stared incredulously back at his Ferengi

crewman; the chief was, more than usual, exasperated

and frustrated at the inept, clunky Cardassian circuit

design.

"I should think you'd have more important things to

do than wonder about your crooked brother," he said.

"Quark is not crooked! Well, uh, okay, maybe a little,

but his heart's in the right place." Rom couldn't quite

meet O'Brien's eye, the chief noted.

"Your brother's heart is in his cash register, along

with his conscience and his loyalty. He couldn't care

less what happened to any of us unless it affected his

bottom line!"

Rom nodded curtly. "Apology accepted," he said.

O'Brien rolled his eyes and returned to the photon

torpedo circuitry, which was failing left and right on

every test run. With war and the rumors of war coming

at Deep Space Nine from all sides, Captain Bejamin

Sisko had ordered a complete overhaul of every combat

system on the station, which meant everything else on

DS9 was going to hell in a handbasket, along with the

special retrofit on the Defiant's cloaking device that

Chief O'Brien had worked out in theory.

Suddenly, O'Brien's comm badge beeped, echoing like

a screaming baby in the tight confines of the upper firing

chamber of pylon II. The chief jumped and dropped his

plasma infuser, and cursed like an Irish sailor.

"Chief," said the voice of Major Kira Nerys, depart-

ment head of Weapons and Defenses, "something urgent

has come up. Drop everything andre"

"I just did drop everything, Major!" barked O'Brien.

"Now I have to pick it up. Can't you wait until I finish

adjusting the--"

"Now, O'Brien! This is an all-senior-hands briefing by

the captain. I think you'll want to hear this, anyway."

"Hear what?"

"This isn't a secured channel, Chief. Come on up to

Ops."

O'Brien paused. A secured channel? Whatever had

just happened, it was so secret, O'Brien realized, that

Major Kira wouldn't even say it over the comm link for

fear Garak or some other spy might be eavesdropping.

"On my way, Major," he said, softly; he tapped his

comm badge to sever the connection. "Rom, how would

you like to finish realigning the firing chamber wave

guides?"

"Would I!" breathed the Ferengi, overjoyed at the

prospect.

"Well, don't have too much fun; this is supposed to be

work, you know." With a last, nervous glance at the

delicate guides, Chief O'Brien began the painful and

delicate operation of extracting himself from the cham-

ber, climbing over the Ferengi--whose small size proba-

bly gave him a job advantage over the bulky chief

anyway--and sliding down the pylon without slipping

and killing himself.

Twelve minutes later, the turbolift popped up into

Ops, disgorging Chief O'Brien. A teenaged ensign (well,

he looked like a teenager to the chiefl) said, "In the

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摘要：

CHAPTER 1 QUARK--TEMPORARILYBARLESS,unbusy,atlooseends--walkedafrenziedpatternaroundandaroundthede-sertedPromenade,tryingnottonoticetheemptykiosks,lockeddoors,anddimmedormissingwelcomesigns.Hefelthisfaceflush;heknewhewasabright,pinkishorangecolorthatwoulddoubtlesselicitadouble-sneerandcutti...

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Star Trek Deep Space 9 22 Vengeance

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