Chapter 10

“DABO!”

M’Pella’s rich, resonant voice—usually loud enough to catch the attention of passersby in the Plaza—was nearly lost in the din of clinking glasses, laughing patrons, and general hubbub.

Which boded well for the success of Quark’s latest attempt to become the wealthiest Ferengi in the quadrant. The place was filled to capacity.

“What d’ya think?” O’Brien asked Ro as they stood together at the bar.

Ro smiled. “I don’t know what to think. You guys have a lot more experience than I do witnessing these get-rich-quick schemes of his. People are buying drinks like crazy. They’re having a good time. What do you think, Odo?”

The Changeling, “dressed”—if one could put it that way—in a loose-fitting civilian Bajoran-style tunic and pants, shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what I think. It doesn’t matter what any of us think. Quark’s schemes always end up the same way. He plans everything to the last detail, and things start out well. Really well. Then—boom.”

O’Brien chuckled, but Ro, bemused, stared at Odo. “Boom?” she said.

“Boom,” repeated Odo. “He forgets something.”

“Or he gets overconfident, pushes something or someone a little too hard,” inserted O’Brien.

“Or he simply gets careless, and suddenly one of the main supports holding the whole thing up gives way, and he hits bottom,” concluded Odo. “And there go all his profits.”

“Well, that’s kind of sad,” commented Ro. “But why does that always happen?”

“Because he’s Quark,” said O’Brien distractedly. Looking around the room, he spotted his wife in the vicinity of the platters of food. “Excuse me—I’m going to try some of those free appetizers.”

Odo studied Ro’s suddenly pensive expression. “If it makes you feel any better,” he offered, “he usually winds up in the same place he started.”

“That’s kind of sad too,” Ro said with a sigh.

As the tower of souvenir glasses got lower and lower, Quark’s smile got bigger and bigger. Servers were running willy-nilly across the room, carrying drink orders to thirsty customers as fast as Hetik and Treir, positioned behind the bar, could pour them. The trays of special hors d’oeuvres had been emptied three times, and the replicators were operating at full capacity. His family members were behaving themselves—so far, at any rate—even Zek, who was seated at a large table between Bena and Kirayoshi O’Brien, making balloon animals from some of the party decorations.

Everything was going GREAT! So what if Brunt was here, hanging out with all of those Entrepreneurs? Before the night was over, they’d be begging Quark to join their stuffy little club!

One of the servers sprinted past Quark, carrying a huge tray full of cocktails. “Hey, hold up there!” Quark shouted, and the server froze in his tracks, centripetal force pushing the brimming glasses perilously close to the edge of the tray.

“What have you got there?” Quark asked, recognizing the server as Issa, a new hire.

Issa gulped nervously. “Stardrifters and Stardusters, sir,” he said, allowing Quark to inspect the contents.

Quark retrieved one of each and looked at them closely, then frowned. “The ’Dusters are fine,” he said. “But the ’Drifters weren’t blended correctly. See the color?”

Issa stared cluelessly at the green drink. “It looks tasty,” he offered.

“Shows what you know. Take them back and tell Hetik to make them from the bottle behind the counter. Treir will show him.”

Issa nodded, but he waited for Quark to replace the two drinks he was holding. And waited. Finally, Quark said, “What are you waiting for? Move!” And Issa ran back to the bar.

Quark studied the Stardrifter again, then shrugged and gulped it down. It actually was pretty tasty, even if it wasn’t the right shade of green. But Quark took pride in his establishment’s mixological reputation. If I’m charging them for the best, I might as well serve them the best, he thought. Tonight, anyway.

He was about to sample the Starduster when someone jostled his elbow. The slippery liquid splashed over his fingers and fell on his shoe.

“Hey, Quark,” the offending patron shouted into his ear. “I’ve been looking for that scroll you promised. Where is it?”

Quark turned to look at the man. He recognized him at once: Flam, a low-level functionary with the Bureau of Audit. Quark had been forced to deal with him after the old space station was destroyed. Flam had flagged Quark’s account of lost inventory and asked if he’d even bothered to take a shuttle through the field of debris after the explosion, searching for salvageable items.

In turn, Quark had questioned how long Flam’s family had been in the rubbish collection business, since that was obviously an area he knew so well.

Their relationship had gone downhill after that. As he dried his hand on a bar towel, Quark tried to remember if he’d put the man’s name on the guest list and, if so, what he could possibly have been thinking.

Nevertheless, judging by the state of Flam’s sobriety—or lack thereof—Quark realized that he was a pretty good customer in any event.

“Go get yourself another drink, Flam,” he said, “and I’ll move things along.”

“Compliments of the housh?” Flam slurred.

“Compliments of Brunt,” Quark responded. “Tell them to put it on his tab.”

As Flam happily meandered over to the bar, Quark realized that he was right about one thing: It was time to get the show started. There was an embassy to dedicate, a scroll to display, and additional profit to be made.

I should get a medal for this, he thought. Displaying the Sacred Scroll in a mere saloon would have been a cheap stunt. But displaying it in an actual embassy that just happened to house a saloon—that was positively patriotic! The very definition of truth, justice, and the Ferengi way!

But first things first. Let’s get this sucker dedicated. Looking around the crowded room, he finally spotted Grand Nagus Rom attempting to blend into a wall as a group of rather stern-looking businessmen closed in on him.

“Gentlemen,” Quark said, stepping in front of his brother. “The Nagus has official duties to attend to.”

Taking Rom by the arm, he walked him over to the platform that he’d carefully positioned out of the way of the gaming tables. “Get up there and knock ’em dead,” Quark said, giving his brother a pat on the back—and a little push. “You’re on.”

Grand Nagus Rom stood on the tiny stage, nearly frozen in fear as he looked over the crowd. Most of them are frowning at me, he thought. He glanced toward Quark, who was gesturing for him to begin, impatient to get this disruption of the party over so he could start selling drinks again. Then Rom looked at Leeta. She was smiling. Her dark eyes were filled with pride. Leeta had complete faith in him, and hers was the only opinion he really cared about.

Taking a deep breath, he began: “The rapid expansion of space exploration—”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. They recognize it already, Rom thought, and he looked again toward Quark. The expression on his brother’s face said “I told you so.” He wanted to run, but then he thought again of Leeta, and of Bena, who was standing on her chair so she could see him. He thought of the fact that as Nagus he could pretty much do whatever he wanted—and what he wanted right now was to get through his speech, and then to get off the platform.

“The rapid expansion of space exploration,” he started again, “has brought about expanded possibility for business—business of the political sort and business of the, um . . . business sort.”

Why didn’t I remember to fix that sloppy phrase? he berated himself.

“The outcry for trade in goods and services is universal. Literally. It calls out from across the Alpha Quadrant, the Gamma Quadrant, from initial Starfleet voyages into the Delta Quadrant. And it is our responsibility, as members of the Ferengi Chamber of Opportunity, to heed that outcry.”

A smattering of applause interrupted his words—perhaps, Rom thought, from those who hadn’t been present the first time he’d read this speech. But as little as it was, it gave him the courage to go on.

“It has been said,” he continued, “that our response to this universal deficiency fringes on ‘exploitation,’ as though that is a bad thing.” Rom paused as a small chorus of affirmation rose and subsided among his listeners. “But we do not exploit those in need. Rather, we seek out their needs and fulfill their desires through Ferengi Good Will. Yes, it is Good Will that we offer. Good Will, the most noble of our endeavors. Good Will, with which we reach into the hearts, into the minds, and into the political and financial institutions of the emerging marketplace. Is it any wonder that so much of that universal outcry is directed toward Ferenginar?”

A spontaneous rush of applause—much larger than before—filled the room. Ferengi businessmen whistled and stomped their feet in agreement. Rom realized that he actually had them right where he—or, more accurately, Quark—wanted them. And his brother was grinning from lobe to lobe!

“And so,” the Nagus continued, “the Ferengi Chamber of Opportunity dedicates this room, this Embassy of Good Will, as a gathering place for all who wish to contribute to the Ferengi Spirit.” Inspired by his own words, Rom raised his hands in the air. “I hereby proclaim this new and improved Ferengi Embassy at Bajor”—a hush filled the room as he paused: two, three, four—“OPEN.”

The noise in the room rose to a cacophony as the movers and shakers of Ferengi society got to their feet and cheered. Even Brunt stood and applauded (although his smile seemed rather forced).

Standing near the rapidly melting statue of Gint, Chief O’Brien looked at his wife and mouthed, “I need a drink.” And they headed back to the bar.