Chapter 3

Captain Ro Laren, commander of Deep Space 9, cast a near apologetic smile at the officer seated across from her. “It might be a little early for us to be meeting about this,” she said. “But Quark has been pestering me daily, so I figured we might as well get it over with.”

“Nothing new there,” commented Lieutenant Commander Jefferson Blackmer, the station’s chief of security. “He’s always a pest. I suspect he’s just trying to use this phony ceremony as leverage to take additional liberties.”

Ro sighed. “That’s just it—it’s not a phony ceremony. It’s true that it doesn’t directly affect Starfleet—or even Bajor, for that matter—but the event will draw attention our way, so we need to make sure that we’re on top of things. In any event, the Federation Council did grant permission for Ferenginar to open an official embassy on the old station with all the appropriate ruffles and flourishes. So we can’t very well deny the Ferengi ambassador permission to hold a dedication ceremony for the new embassy, can we?”

“Same ambassador, same Nagus, and pretty much the same embassy—it just seems a little redundant,” Blackmer commented, but Ro could tell from his tone that he was resigned to the situation. “All right, I’ll notify the dock master that we’ll be expecting additional traffic on the outer docking ring that day. And I’ll assign an extra security detail to the Plaza for the duration of the event.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Ro said. “I’m sure you’ll keep everything on the station running smoothly, despite the influx of dignitaries.”

Blackmer rose from his chair. “About that: Has Quark finalized his invitation list yet? All I really need is a number, because it’s unlikely the Ferengi, uh, ‘dignitaries’ will cause any major problems. Still, I need to know how many extra people to put on standby.”

“That is an excellent question,” Ro responded. “He’s been a little evasive on that point. I think I’ll go pester him for a change.”

Blackmer nodded as she got to her feet. “Thank you, sir,” he said crisply.

“I’ll send you the list as soon as I get him to commit to it, Jeff. Dismissed.”

Chief Miles O’Brien was tucking into a meal at Quark’s when Ro entered the bar. For a moment, she was surprised to see him; the chief engineer usually took dinner in his quarters with his wife, Keiko, and their two children, Molly and Kirayoshi. Then she remembered that Keiko had been asked to lecture at a botanical seminar being staged at the Hedrikspool Nature Preserve on Bajor. Apparently she’d taken the children with her.

She paused at his table. “Roughing it, huh?”

O’Brien smiled and dabbed a bit of mustard from the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Just for the day,” he responded. “They’ll all be back on the last shuttle. Keiko doesn’t want them to miss classes tomorrow.” Suddenly it occurred to him that he’d been remiss in his manners. “Would you care to join me, Captain?”

Ro shook her head. “I just stopped by to talk to Quark.” She glanced around and didn’t immediately spot him. “Is he . . . ?”

O’Brien gestured down the long corridor that led to the facility’s “employees only” area. “In his office,” he said between sips of synthale. “Hetik says he’s been in there for the better part of two days.”

“Thanks,” Ro said, heading in that direction.

The door to Quark’s office was open, but she hesitated before entering. It sounded like “Ambassador Quark” was addressing someone.

“So in order to prep the area and make sure that we have enough room for all of the guests, I’ll have to close the bar to the public that entire day. That’ll mean a loss of approximately . . .”

She heard the tap-tap-tap of Quark’s polished fingernails against the surface of a padd. Then, once again, his voice: “Yow!” he exclaimed. “That’s a lot of latinum! Maybe I should charge for the appetizers.” A pause. Then: “No. No. People expect free appetizers at a big event. It’s a given. I’ll just have to make it up in the charges for those ‘special half-priced celebratory drinks with commemorative glasses.’ The guests won’t know what their original price was anyway.”

Realizing that the ambassador was talking only to himself, Ro reached in and knocked on the wall next to the open door. But if Quark heard the sound, he chose to ignore it. “What to serve, what to serve . . . hmm. Aldebaran Shellmouth Fritters with Tartaras Sauce. That looks tasty. But it takes forever to pry the damn things open. Labor costs would be outrageous! Now, parthas soufflé! That’s nice and simple. And it doesn’t require much chewing.”

Ro knocked again, more insistently.

“Go away, Hetik!” Quark said. “I told you, I’m extremely busy.” He pushed a button on a door control module under his desk and the door began to slide closed.

“Busy, huh,” Ro said, stepping back. “Okay, fine. I’ll keep that in mind the next time you want to see me.”

“Ro? Don’t go!” She heard Quark push his chair back and jump to his feet, in the process knocking something, or several somethings, off of his desk and onto the floor with a loud clatter. A few seconds later—Ro envisioned him straightening his jacket so that he’d look his best—he opened the door.

Stepping into the office, she stopped with her arms folded across her chest. “You’re sure, Quark?” she inquired. “I could just leave and come back at a more convenient time—say, next millennium.”

Quark sighed. “Sorry, sorry. Come in. I got caught up in planning. I don’t have a lot of time to pull this together. Please—have a seat.”

He gestured at the visitor’s chair across from his desk, which, Ro noted, was covered by a half-dozen padds and some unwieldy charts. Sweeping it all onto the floor—where the items joined more of the same—he gestured again at the chair. “Sit. Please. Would you like a cup of raktajino?”

“No, thank you.” Ro sat. “So,” she said, taking in the barely controlled chaos of what usually was a tidy—well, tidier—work area. “Embassy Dedication Day.”

“I haven’t actually decided on what to call it yet,” he said quickly. “I’m not sure if ‘Dedication Day’ has the right mix of solemnity, excitement, and fun. It needs to be something that says it all, particularly to the VIFs that will be attending.” At her blank expression, he clarified: “Very Important Ferengi.”

“That’s what I came for,” the commander stated. “Your guest—sorry. Your VIF list.”

Quark shuffled through the assorted padds until he found the one he wanted, then offered it to her. Ro glanced at all the other padds strewn around the room before she accepted it. “You do know that you don’t need a separate padd for each aspect of your planning, don’t you?”

“Of course,” he responded. “But this makes it easier for me to see everything at the same time.”

Ro nodded dismissively and studied the list in front of her. “Let’s see: Rom, of course; Leeta and Bena; Zek and Ishka—”

“Family. Those were the easy ones,” Quark interjected. “All comp, unfortunately.” He sighed.

“Comp? Wait—you mean the rest of them aren’t complimentary?” She stared at him. “You’re charging your guests to attend?”

Quark shrugged. “It’s traditional. No Ferengi would be caught dead at a party where he didn’t have to bribe the host to gain attendance.” He showed her a sample invitation. Neatly printed at the bottom were the initials RSVP, followed by a long string of numbers. “This,” he explained, “means Response Signifies Vault Payment.”

“And those numbers?”

“The routing number for my personal vault account at the Bank of Bolias. On the night of the party, the person at the door checks to make sure the guest has submitted payment. No payment, no admittance. Unless, of course, they bring latinum. Latinum is always good, although payment at the door will be a bit higher.”

Ro shook her head slowly, trying to take in the information. Just when she thought she knew Quark pretty well . . .

She exhaled slowly, moving this little tidbit of information to the back of her mind. “Okay, so let’s see who else is on the list. Trapunto, Boucle, Kruller, Chintz, Schlecht—”

“Members of the Congress of Economic Advisors.”

“Krax, Nilva, Sluggo— Wait. The Sluggo? The guy who invented Eelwasser and Slug-o-Cola?”

“Common misconception,” Quark corrected patiently. “Sluggo was the co-inventor of Eelwasser. Along with his partner Vorp, Gint-rest-his-soul.” Quark shuddered briefly. Vorp’s miserable fate—going from riches to rags to dying destitute (not to mention being devoured by ravenous albino fangcats) haunted every entrepreneur. “And”—he moved on quickly—“Sluggo didn’t actually invent Slug-o-Cola either. He just let the corporation use his likeness on the label. For a lot of latinum, I might add. But he’s still one of the most respected men in Ferengi history.”

“More than I needed to know,” said Ro. “So . . . is this Sluggo still alive?”

Quark shrugged. “Who knows? No one’s seen him in years. But I thought it was worth inviting him. Just letting people know that he’s on the guest list will raise the profile of the event. And if he shows up,” he added, eyes glinting, “all the better!”

She continued reading. “Gral, Kain, Zoid—you’re right, this is a regular Who’s Who of dignitaries. And they all said yes? That’s quite a coup, Quark.”

Quark cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well, uh, some of them haven’t responded yet.”

Something in his tone made Ro look up and study him carefully. “How many is ‘some’?”

“Well,” Quark said slowly, “everybody on the list, except for Rom and Leeta and Ishka and Zek, and . . .”

Ro studied him for a second, her dark gaze suddenly sympathetic. “None of the VIFs said yes? How did you invite them?”

“I contacted them all personally. A few who took my communication told me that they’d get back to me. A few more said that they’d think about it.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“And I left messages for the rest. Nobody has communicated back.”

“Nobody?” Ro said, honestly shocked. “The dedication of a Ferengi embassy is a big deal. You’d think they’d all want to be here. What seems to be the problem?”

“I’m not sure,” Quark confessed. “It might be that they feel that they already paid their regards when they attended the dedication of the Ferengi embassy on the old station.”

“Literally paid their regards,” Ro interpreted.

“Well, yes,” he admitted. “Although in my opinion that would be very petty. A good party is a good party, especially when the Grand Nagus will be there. This would be an opportunity for them to see Rom without an appointment.”

“Is it that hard to get an appointment?” Ro asked.

“No—but it’s expensive. Almost as expensive as an RSVP. The difference being, if they spend the money to attend the dedication, they also get the value-added extras. Exquisite refreshments. Top-notch entertainment. New costumes on the dabo girls.” He picked up a glittery piece of ribbon from the floor. “What do you think?”

She fingered the fabric. “Very pretty. Where’s the rest of it?”

Quark looked puzzled. “The rest of what?”

“The costume—” Ro rolled her eyes. “Never mind. I get it. Well, I hope you get the turnout you’re looking for.”

The Ferengi looked at her with a tentative smile. “Actually, I was thinking of asking whether you might be able to help.”

Her eyes bored into him. “Help how, Quark?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe ask Starfleet Command to donate a little . . . something that I could give away during the ceremony. Nothing big. Just something I could advertise that would convince the holdouts to say yes.”

“Something like—?” she prompted.

“Like . . . uh . . . special permission—for one time only, of course—for the winner to be allowed to transport cargo that’s typically embargoed . . . into Federation space. Or”—he added quickly, noting the way she was clenching her jaw—“maybe just a simple reduction in import fees for cargo that . . . uh . . . occasionally competes with that of Federation partners.”

Ro didn’t say anything. She simply got to her feet and headed for the door.

“Laren, wait.”

She stopped, but kept her back to him.

“Look,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. I need those people to come.” He paused, not really wanting to bare his soul but realizing that he had no choice. “If they don’t come”—his voice dropped noticeably—“what’s the point of having a Ferengi embassy if the important Ferengi won’t bother to acknowledge that it exists?”

At last, Ro turned to face him. She no longer felt angry. She felt . . . sad.

“I’m sorry, Quark,” she said. “I can’t offer Starfleet favors for you to use as door prizes. But I know you’ll come up with something. You always do.” She glanced out into the bar. “Ask some of your employees. Maybe they’ve got an angle you haven’t considered.”

“Unlikely,” Quark muttered unhappily.

“Well, why don’t you ask them?” she said.

The door closed behind her.