Chapter 7

The Fifth Day of Ha’mara—1813 Hours

Exquisite, Quark thought.

No other word could describe it. The re-dressed bar was exquisite. Every horizontal surface gleamed, burnished to an intense luster. Every vertical surface glistened, freshly lacquered in deep, rich jewel tones. The barstools, each reupholstered in pricey (but discounted) Corinthian leather, awaited the appreciative bottoms that would settle there. Across the room, a vast buffet of delectable replicated dishes from every corner of the quadrant rested on tables arranged to encircle a life-size ice sculpture of Gint, one hand outstretched in a symbolic offering of eternal prosperity, the other clenched into a tight fist, confirming that once you’ve achieved prosperity, you’re under no obligation to share. That frozen fist would draw the admiring eye of every entering VIF.

Exquisite, Quark thought again. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

Feeling more like an ambassador by the minute, he turned to inspect his staff. The male employees, attentively standing behind the serving counter, wore crisp new uniforms designed by Raldo of Tavela Minor, the tailor who’d replaced Garak following the Dominion War. As for the fe-male employees, they wore the chic, barely there design that had originated in Quark’s own vivid imagination.

Finally, the barkeep rested his eyes on the pièce de résistance stacked high in the center of the room: a towering pyramid of crystal champagne glasses from a manufacturer in the far-off exotic territory of Ohio, on Earth. The glasses, he knew, were a frivolous embellishment. Very few of his patrons were likely to order champagne. But something about the gleaming tower, which he’d first noted in a holovid titled “Culinary Arts and Celebratory Stylings Through the Ages—and Across the Universe!” appealed to his imagination. The glittering, delicately balanced display of fragile stemware whispered to him “No Expense Spared” (even though he’d acquired the glasses for a price that surprised even him, from a supplier who’d nervously glanced over his shoulder throughout the transaction). Guests undoubtedly would be impressed. And besides, he’d instructed his bartenders to serve all of the evening’s libations in the stemmed glasses, not just the latest offering from Château Picard. The added fee for each “crystal souvenir” would cover the cost, not to mention the requisite overtime pay to his staff.

Beyond the bar’s force field, the walla of invitees grew louder by the minute. Ah, music to my ears, Quark thought, turning his attention to the lectern he’d placed near the entrance. Hmm, something’s missing. Or, rather, someone.

“Treir?” he called out. “Dammit, Treir, where did you—”

Then his words died in his throat as the Orion dabo girl—now manager of his bar on Bajor—sashayed toward him from the back hallway.

“Relax, Quark, I was just checking my hair,” she said. She walked past him slowly, allowing him to receive the full benefit of her musky perfume, which enveloped her like a powerful cloaking (or uncloaking) shield. “You want me to look good, right?”

“I do,” Quark said. “Although I still don’t see why you refused to put on the ensemble that the other girls are wearing.”

Treir put her hands on her shapely hips. “Let’s not have that conversation again, Quark. I’m here tonight—at your request—as your gatekeeper-slash-accountant, not as your bar wench. If that doesn’t work for you, I can still make the late shuttle back to Bajor.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Quark capitulated as he watched her take her place behind the lectern. He had to admit that the gown she’d chosen—a formfitting little number made of sapphire-toned Tholian silk—provided a stunning contrast to her jade-green skin. He doubted anyone would even consider arguing when she asked to see an RSVP payment confirmation number—or, in lieu of that, when she asked for the jacked-up entrance fee.

“Hey, Quark,” came a voice from the other side of the force field. “Are you going to open up? I’ve been waiting here forever.”

Chintz, he thought, recognizing the speaker. He’d had dealings with Chintz before. The man had the patience of a hungry sehlat.

“You can read, can’t you?” Quark responded. “At 1900 hours, like it says on the invitation.”

“Well, why don’t you send out one of the dabo girls with some drinks?” Chintz suggested. “It’s the least a considerate host might do.”

“Ha, that’s a good one,” Quark said dismissively. “I’ll keep you in mind if I ever need a comedian.” As he glanced down at his padd to see if he’d overlooked anything, he heard another voice.

“But I’m hungry now!” it wailed plaintively.

“Appetizers will be available at no charge once you get inside—” he began, then paused. He realized that he knew that voice too—and the speaker wasn’t supposed to be in this line.

Quark ran to the entrance and peered through the field. “Zek! What are you doing out there?”

The former Nagus looked befuddled. “I was hungry,” he whined, “so I came here.”

“Where’s Ishka?” Quark hissed.

“Here!” came a voice from deeper into the Plaza, followed by the clacka-clacka-clacka of his mother’s footsteps as she raced toward the bar. “He got out when I wasn’t looking.” Arriving at the field, she grabbed Zek’s arm and caught her breath.

“I told you to bring him to the employees’ entrance, along with Leeta and Bena,” Quark said, sotto voce.

“I knew, I know—but I wasn’t quite ready. I was enjoying a very refreshing facial, and the next thing I knew . . .” Ishka shrugged. “You’ve been very naughty, Zekkie,” she said, pulling her charge away from the entrance. “We’ll come back in a little while.”

“Can I have some slug butter on chitin crisps?” Zek asked, his squinty little eyes pleading up at her.

“We’ll see.”

As they walked away, Quark noticed the waiting guests turn to watch the pitiful sight of the former Nagus. That’s just great, he thought. That’s exactly what I don’t want them to remember about tonight—the doddering ex-Nagus and my mother in her orthopedic slippers.

Hoping to sound ambassadorial, Quark cleared his throat loudly. All eyes swiveled toward him. “You’re minutes away from a fantastic evening, folks!” he said, sounding his most upbeat. Several members of the crowd looked dubious, so he reluctantly played his ace. “And, uh”—he took a deep breath—“the first drink is . . . uh . . .” Quark paused, fighting to get the words out. “The first drink is . . . on the house.”

A gasp of surprise, followed by a very enthusiastic cheer, waved through the crowd. But it didn’t bring joy to Quark’s businessman heart.

It brought heartburn.

Hoping for one last moment of quiet before the fray began, Quark stepped into his office and almost ran into his nervous-looking brother. While he was happy to see that Rom was waiting where they had planned to meet, he was less happy to see a greasy smear across one sleeve of the ornate chartreuse-brocade on burgundy-velvet robe he wore.

“It’s done,” Rom said, clearly oblivious to his appearance. “Everything’s set.”

Quark shook his head in disgust. “Give me your robe.”

“What?”

“Your robe,” Quark repeated, pulling it off of him. He tossed the soiled garment into the wall replicator and addressed the device. “Recycle and restore.”

“Confirm parameters of restoration,” responded the flat voice of the replicator.

Quark glanced at Rom. “Do you really like this color?” he asked.

Rom looked offended. “I love that color. Leeta picked it out.”

Quark shrugged. “Recycle and restore. Duplicate exactly—except for the grease.”

The soiled robe vanished in a cluster of sparkles and, a second later, a fresh duplicate appeared. Quark tossed it to Rom. “So . . . you finally got the force field activated in the lounge? Took you long enough.”

The Nagus frowned at his brother as he pulled on the new robe. “I would have been done a lot sooner if you’d let me ask Chief O’Brien to help.”

“I told you—you can’t let any outsiders touch it.”

Rom looked incredulous. “Not even the chief? He’s the most trustworthy hew-mon I’ve ever met.”

“Not even the chief,” Quark insisted. “Look, you’re the one who was all nervous about taking it out of storage and bringing it here. You’ve got to keep your chain of accountability intact. If only one person is responsible for handling it, there’s only one link in the chain. Makes sense, right?”

Rom sighed. “Yeah. I guess.”

“So just relax—and concentrate on your speech. You do have a speech written, don’t you?”

Rom nodded and sat down wearily in Quark’s desk chair. “Leeta helped me update the one from last time. When we dedicated the embassy at the old station.”

Quark looked up, startled. “You didn’t write a new one?”

“I was going to, but Leeta—”

Quark rolled his eyes. “Let me guess: She convinced you that all you had to do was change the date and a few adjectives here and there.”

“Sort of. I’ve been busy. I didn’t have time to write a whole new speech, so it seemed like a good idea.”

“And never mind that the same important people are here and they probably remember the old speech. Never mind that it makes the whole occasion seem like someone’s hand-me-down. Never mind that—”

Rom abruptly got to his feet and walked over to Quark. “Now listen, Brother. You said it yourself—they came here to see the scroll, not to eat your hors d’oeuvres, and not to see me. The last time we did this, most of them spent so much time partying that they barely paid any attention to me.”

Quark stared at Rom for a minute, a touch surprised at the display of backbone, then cleared his throat and changed the subject. “I wouldn’t be so sure about the hors d’oeuvres. I’m sure they’ll be raving about these for weeks.”

There was a knock at the door, and before Quark could say, “Enter,” Leeta, Bena, Ishka, and Zek, all dressed in their Ferengi finest, entered the office. Leeta and Bena headed straight for Rom, who kissed his daughter on the forehead and his wife on the lips. Zek waddled over to Quark’s desk chair and immediately sat down. “Where’s the grub?” he addressed Quark. “Tube grub, that is. Ha ha ha ha.”

“Oh, Zekkie, you’re so silly,” Ishka said, stepping around behind him and patting his bald head lovingly.

Quark studied the newcomers for a moment, a frown on his face. “How did you get in just now?”

“Don’t worry, Quark, we used the servers’ entrance in the back, just like you said,” Ishka soothed.

“Right. But . . . did you ring the bell?” he asked. “I didn’t hear it, and believe me—it’s plenty loud. Who let you in?”

“Nobody let us in,” Leeta responded. “Bena ran to the door and it opened right up. We figured Treir saw us coming and triggered the door.”

Quark rubbed his chin. “Maybe,” he said as he pondered the possibility. “I’ll check with her before we open—”

There was another knock. This time it was Frool. “That woman Eisla Darvis is here with her crew. You said to let you know when she showed up.”

Quark’s eyes lit up. “Great timing! I’ll go talk to her.”

Leeta’s eyes widened. “Eisla Darvis? Ooooh, I love her FNS reports. Is she here to talk to Rom?”

“Rom?” Quark gave her a disdainful glance as he followed Frool out of the room. “Why would she want to talk to Rom?”

The door hissed shut behind him, leaving the remaining occupants in uncomfortable silence. Leeta put a comforting hand on her husband’s shoulder, but he smiled to let her know he wasn’t offended. “This is Quark’s party,” he said. “I’m just the Nagus.”

Zek looked up abruptly. “You? I thought I was the Nagus.”

Rom, Leeta, and Ishka sighed.