Worlds of Star Trek Deep Space Nine® Volume Three

  “How Like a Monoform You Are,” Laas Said.

  Odo did not rise to the taunt. “Why are you acting like this? I’m not your enemy.”

  “At this moment, I consider the entire Great Link an enemy of the Hundred,” Laas vowed. He indicated the dead changeling. “This one adrift, alone for centuries, then found by humanoids, experimented on, and finally killed in a paranoid frenzy. Me—” He pointed a finger at himself. “—living among monoforms for two hundred years, tormented, miserable. The same story for the other two.” He motioned to either side of the islet, evidently to include the other two changelings he’d brought with him, though they’d already glided back into the Link. “For what?” Laas concluded, in a way that did not invite an answer, but Odo volunteered one anyway.

  “For knowledge,” he said flatly, again reiterating the justification he’d been given for the Hundred. But as with Laas, he found that he could no longer countenance that explanation. Right now, he wondered why he had never questioned it.

  “How can you say that?” Laas asked sharply.

  “I don’t know,” Odo confessed now to Laas. “It’s what I was told. I had no reason to disbelieve it.”

  “Don’t you see,” Laas said, “that we have every reason to disbelieve it?”

  “That may be,” Odo allowed, “but I never lied to you. You don’t have to fight me.”

  Laas stepped forward. “You’ve lied to yourself, Odo,” he said, “and that means you’ve lied to me as well.” He circled around and headed for the edge of the islet. “And the Founders have lied to us both.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

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  Ferenginar

  Satisfaction

  Is Not Guaranteed

  Keith R.A. DeCandido

  About the Author

  Keith R.A. DeCandido has been very handsomely paid for his prior forays into the world of Star Trek fiction. Those lucrative publications include novels (Diplomatic Implausibility, Demons of Air and Darkness, The Art of the Impossible, and A Time for War, a Time for Peace), duologies (The Brave and the Bold and the first two I.K.S. Gorkon books, A Good Day to Die and Honor Bound), comic books (the four-issue miniseries Perchance to Dream), eBooks (the S.C.E. novellas Fatal Error, Cold Fusion, Invincible, Here There Be Monsters, War Stories, and Breakdowns), and short fiction (stories in What Lay Beyond, Prophecy and Change, No Limits, and Tales of the Dominion War). Forthcoming work includes a third Gorkon novel entitled Enemy Territory; the stories “loDnI’pu’ vavpu’ je” in Tales from the Captain’s Table and “Letting Go” in Distant Shores, the tenth anniversary Star Trek: Voyager anthology; and Articles of the Federation, a novel about politics in the United Federation of Planets.

  Not content to make a profit solely off Star Trek, Keith has also written in the media universes of Gene Roddenberry’s Andromeda, Resident Evil, Farscape, Serenity, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Marvel Comics, Xena, and more. Upon realizing that he retains more rights to original fiction, he also put out the high fantasy police procedural Dragon Precinct in 2004, and edited the acclaimed novelette anthology Imaginings.

  Keith lives in New York City with his girlfriend, two adorable cats, and way too much stuff, some of which he was unwise enough to pay retail for. You can read his self-serving propaganda at DeCandido.net, or just e-mail him at keith@decandido.net.

  Dedicated with fondness and sorrow to the memory of Cecily “Moogie” Adams, taken from us much too young.

  Acknowledgments

  Primary thanks must, as always, go to Editor Supreme Marco Palmieri, who keeps coming up with brilliant ideas, keeps pushing his authors to do more than they think they can accomplish, and keeps insisting on taking no credit for it no matter how often we gush about him. I’m especially grateful to him for letting me run with the idea I came up with way back when I was writing Demons of Air and Darkness and flesh it out into the story you’re about to read.

  Secondary thanks go to my wonderful agent, Lucienne Diver, about whom there aren’t enough good words to say.

  Tertiary thanks go to the wonderful actors who played some of the characters seen in the following pages: the late Cecily Adams, Hamilton Camp, Jeffrey Combs, Michelle Forbes, Henry Gibson, Galyn Görg, Cirroc Lofton, Andrea Martin, Chase Masterson, Josh Pais, Wallace Shawn, Tiny Ron, Nana Visitor, Lou Wagner, and most of all, the Big Three, the ones who made the Ferengi cool again, Aron Eisenberg, Max Grodénchik, and Armin Shimerman.

  Additional thanks to the various reference sources, primary in this case being the invaluable Legends of the Ferengi by Ira Steven Behr and The Ferengi Rules of Acquisition by Behr & Robert Hewitt Wolfe, as well as some of the usual suspects: The Star Trek Encyclopedia and Star Trek Chronology by the tireless Mike & Denise Okuda, and the Star Trek: Deep Space Nine Companion by Terry J. Erdman & Paula M. Block.

  More thanks to all of DS9’s fine Ferengi forays over the years, from the first season’s “The Nagus” by David Livingston & Ira Steven Behr to the seventh season’s “The Dogs of War” by Peter Allan Fields, Ronald D. Moore, & René Echevarria, and all the ones in between. Special mention also must go to the excellent DS9 novel The 34th Rule by Armin Shimerman & David R. George III, with Eric A. Stillwell, the gold-pressed latinum standard for Ferengi-focused fiction, and to the Ferenginar section of Michael Jan Friedman’s excellent New Worlds, New Civilizations, from which I borrowed liberally. Gratitude also to Tracy L. Hemenover.

  The usual thanks to the Malibu Gang, the Forebearance, the Geek Patrol, the folks on the various online bulletin boards, and the readers who’ve sent e-mail over the years—you all keep me going.

  Final and most important thanks go to Terri Osborne, whose support has always been of more value than latinum….

  Historian’s Note

  This story is set in late November, 2376 (Old Calendar), approximately seven weeks after the conclusion of the Star Trek: Deep Space Nine novel Unity.

  Satisfaction is not guaranteed.

  —RULE OF ACQUISITION #19

  1

  Females and finances don’t mix.

  —RULE OF ACQUISITION #94

  “Dabo!”

  Quark looked up at the baritone cry that indicated that someone had just won at Hetik’s dabo table. Again.

  What was I thinking when I let Treir talk me into hiring him? The honest answer, of course, was that he wasn’t thinking, at least not with his brain, but rather the appendages on either side of it.
It was difficult to be reasonable or to think things through when you were talking with a two-meter-tall Orion woman bred for sex appeal and wearing one of the skimpy outfits that Quark himself insisted his dabo girls wear.

  Not to be confused with the sleeveless V-neck tunic and tight shorts that his dabo boy was clad in as he handed over a considerable pile of winnings to a Boslic woman. It was, in fact, the third time the woman had won, and if she kept up at this rate, Quark would be bankrupt.

  With a brief hand signal to Frool to keep an eye on the bar, Quark navigated among the tables, which were fairly crowded. Three Starfleet ships were in dock at Deep Space 9—one about to head into the wormhole to the Gamma Quadrant, one on its way to deliver supplies to the ongoing Cardassian relief effort, and one simply stopping over for shore leave after a patrol of the sector—so the bar was full to bursting with gray-and-black-uniformed personnel, along with the usual collection of traders, cargo carriers, and travelers of all kinds that paraded through DS9 every day. Plus, of course, the regulars.

  If Quark had his way, there’d be fewer Starfleet; they weren’t the biggest spenders in the galaxy, and they didn’t imbibe nearly enough to suit him. There wasn’t a lot he missed about the days when the Cardassians ran the station, but one was that you could always count on members of the Cardassian military to be heavy drinkers.

  Still, it was a decent day for business. So I’m not about to let that Bajoran simian ruin it by giving all my latinum to that Boslic!

  As he drew closer, he noticed that the Boslic woman wasn’t looking at the winnings that were piling up next to her arms, which were folded neatly at the edge of the dabo table. She wasn’t looking at the other players—a Lurian freighter captain, a human Starfleet officer, and a Tellarite civilian—who were looking at her winnings, and rather dolefully at that.

  She was looking at Hetik. More to the point, she was staring at Hetik.

  Quark knew that stare very well. It was one that was all too often etched on his own face whenever Ro Laren was in the room. Or Kira Nerys. Or Natima Lang. Or Treir. Or Ezri Dax. Or pretty much any other beautiful woman.

  In a gentle voice that sounded like honey over hasperat, Hetik told the Boslic woman to put all her winnings on double down.

  Without even hesitating, she did so, barely looking at the latinum strips she moved across the table.

  Quark, who knew his dabo table, relaxed and stopped in his tracks.

  The human and the Lurian both bet triple under, and the Tellarite, spitting and cursing to a degree that irritated Quark—not so much the cursing as the spitting on the table, which he made a mental note to tell Broik to polish later—put what little money he had remaining on double down as well.

  To Quark’s lack of surprise, triple under won, and both the Tellarite and the Boslic were cleaned out. The Tellarite immediately got up and stormed out, which suited Quark fine, as he had bought only one drink, finished it hours ago, and refused every offer of a fresh one.

  However, the Boslic woman simply stood up, ran a hand over Hetik’s cheek, said, “Thank you for a divine evening,” and slowly exited, making sure to give Hetik several backward glances as she departed.

  Okay, so maybe a dabo boy wasn’t such a bad idea.

  Quark worked his way back to the bar. On the way, he was intercepted by Treir. The Orion woman towered over him and favored him with a seductive smile. “You didn’t trust Hetik, did you?”

  “I just wanted to keep an ear on things.” Quark spoke defensively, which caused him to wonder why he felt so defensive. “Rule of Acquisition Number One-Ninety: ‘Hear all, trust nothing.’ ”

  As they got to the bar, Quark took his place behind it. Treir draped herself over the bar so that she was at eye level with the much shorter Quark, and also gave him a very good look at her very generous cleavage, most of which was visible in her very skimpy outfit. Quark knew she did it on purpose, since she was as aware of the Fifty-Third Rule as he was—“Never trust anybody taller than you”—and also knew the deleterious effect her cleavage had on his higher brain functions.

  “You know,” she said in her sultriest voice, “you never gave me proper compensation.”

  “For what?”

  “Hiring Hetik. You didn’t think hiring a dabo boy would be a good idea, but he’s drawn in a huge number of customers. I think I deserve some kind of reward for that.”

  Two Bajorans departed; Quark grabbed their empty glasses and put them on the shelf to be cleaned. “It’s true, he has added bodies to the dabo table.”

  “And yet, you haven’t—”

  “—given you compensation? No, I haven’t.” Quark leaned forward on the bar, his large nose close to Treir’s small green one. “You had that idea while in my employ to service my bar. ‘You pay for it, it’s your idea’—Rule of Acquisition Number Twenty-Five. Since I paid for it, it’s my brilliant idea, and I don’t owe you anything.”

  Treir stood up straight and looked down that small nose at Quark. This put her torso at eye level, which didn’t bother Quark all that much. Treir had a magnificent torso, and the outfit she wore today left it entirely exposed, from the bottom of her breasts to the middle of her pelvis. She folded her arms over her chest. “You know, Quark, when you sold me on this job, it was as an improvement over being a slave.”

  Quark spread his arms. “Isn’t it? You don’t have to have sex on demand with whomever your Orion master says you have to. You’re free to come and go as you please, and you actually earn a wage. Now, if that state of affairs is no longer to your liking, you can walk out that door and that will be that—aside from the breach-of-employment fine, of course.”

  Treir smiled sweetly. “Of course.” The smile fell. “You do realize that if I leave, the dabo tables will empty out in an instant.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll still have Hetik and M’Pella.”

  “Oh, don’t be so sure of that.”

  Quark felt a tingle in his lobes. He couldn’t help it; he loved it when Treir pretended she had some kind of authority over the bar. She didn’t, of course, but that didn’t even slow her down. And, it was true, she had made several good suggestions for improving business.

  She’s so invigorating.

  Brushing a hand across his lobe, he started to speak, when a customer in a Starfleet uniform called out for two synthales.

  As he went over to the replicator, he said, “Anyhow, I can’t afford to trust Hetik or you or anyone else. These are dangerous times.” To the computer he said, “Two synthales.”

  Treir scrunched her face up in confusion. “What’re you talking about? Profits are up, and have been since Bajor joined the Federation.”

  He handed the synthales to the officer and his companion, also in uniform. They raised their glasses in salute and drank. Quark turned back to Treir. “No, revenues are up. Profits are barely holding steady.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. You’ve got people pouring in here, you gave us all a pay cut, and the dabo tables and holosuites are packed.”

  “Which reminds me, shouldn’t you be at your table?”

  “I’m on a break.”

  Quark sighed. Instituting breaks was the biggest mistake he’d ever made.

  Treir continued. “Look at those two.” She pointed at the officers to whom he’d just given the synthales. “They can get those same two synthales for free in the replimat or in their quarters, but they’re willing to come here to pay for it because they like the atmosphere. Let’s face it—Quark’s is the hot spot of the Bajoran sector, and everyone knows it.”

  Bowing his head, Quark said, “Thank you for that lovely demonstration of the Thirty-Third Rule, but—”

  “I’m not sucking up, Quark. I gave that up when you and Ro took me off Malic’s ship. I’m telling the truth.”

  That brought Quark up short. Telling the truth went counter to every instinct he had. “You see, you’ve just perfectly demonstrated the source of my problems.”

  “I don’t understand.”
/>
  “Of course not, you’re a female. And—”

  Treir pointed at Quark, which was disappointing on two fronts. For one thing, it was a fairly menacing gesture from a two-meter-tall Orion; and it meant she unfolded her arms, thus reducing the drool value of her cleavage. “So help me, Quark, if you quote the Ninety-Fourth Rule at me, I’ll rip your ears off.”

  Quark refused to be intimidated or aroused, though it was a close call. “Well, it’s true! Females and finances don’t mix, no matter what my mother or my brother says.” He shook his head. “Yes, we’ve got more customers and we’ve got more revenues. But the only reason we’re able to stay in business on this Federation station with their”—he shuddered at the very thought—“moneyless economy is because dear old Grand Nagus Rom decided to make my bar the Ferengi embassy to Bajor.”

  The sweet smile came back. So did the folded arms, which made up for it. “I know all this, Quark. The bar’s Ferengi soil, so you can—”

  “Pay taxes.”

  Treir frowned. “Huh?”

  “My brother has continued the ‘reforms’ that Grand Nagus Zek put forward before he retired.” He walked over to the back of the bar and pulled down a bottle of Aldebaran whiskey. “That includes income tax,” he said as he poured the green liquid into a glass. “I didn’t lower your wages. I have to take a certain amount out for taxes, which I didn’t have to do before this bar became part of Ferenginar.”

  Rolling her eyes, Treir said, “So now you have to actually pay taxes to support your government.”

  Quark rolled his eyes right back. “I don’t support my government. My government is run by an idiot—I should know, I was raised with him. He’s driving Ferenginar to ruin, and what’s worse is that I have to help pay for it!” He took a sip of whiskey, the emerald beverage burning his throat as it went down. “And the only way I’m going to be able to pay for it is for you to stop wasting my money by standing at this bar and distracting me and getting back to your dabo table. Break’s over.”