Chapter 12

By 2100 hours, the party had grown so loud that Ro almost missed Blackmer’s check-in call.

“Activity has slowed to normal on the docking ring, Captain,” he reported. “From the noise I’m hearing on your end, I’d guess that it’s the opposite at Quark’s.”

“You’ve got that right, Commander,” Ro responded. “I’ve never seen this place so crowded. It looks like Quark’s party is a success.”

“Good for him,” Blackmer said, sounding a bit disingenuous. “Well, enjoy yourself. If you need me, I’ll be in the Hub.”

“I won’t be here much longer, Jeff,” Ro said. “Can I bring you some appetizers?”

“Not from what I’ve heard about them.”

Ro chuckled and signed off.

Wandering through the crowd, nodding at the guests she recognized, Ro found it hard to tune out the clamor of conversations swelling around her.

“. . . not justifiable for random portfolios. You’re either dedicated to mixed beetles or you’re not. There’s no two ways about it.”

“. . . significant premiums with increasing tendencies in . . .”

“. . . variable index futures, offset by their collective restructuring after the meteor storm last year.”

“. . . honestly, it’s always a cyclical market with toad bladders.”

“. . . and finances don’t mix. Never have, never will.”

“Kinda makes you glad you’re not in ‘business,’ doesn’t it, Captain?”

Chief O’Brien’s lilting voice in the midst of all that investment babble was like a breath of fresh air. She turned to see him standing with his wife, Keiko, and smiled. She’d known them both since she served aboard the Enterprise, back in the days when she’d had the social skills of a razorcat.

Ro laughed. “I would have been a complete failure in the private sector.”

“Well, perhaps this particular private sector,” Keiko said charitably. “Not all businesses, nor businesspeople, are as, um, intense as the Ferengi.”

“Intense is a good word for it,” Ro said, “although I think cutthroat would probably be more accurate! I suspect the odds of survival are a lot better in Starfleet.”

“Well, I know I definitely prefer our rule book to theirs,” said O’Brien with a smile.

“Speaking of that, have you seen the scroll yet?” Keiko asked.

“No,” Ro answered. “I’m not sure that I’d be the most appreciative audience for it. I know most of the rules already, and I don’t think looking at the original version would make me like them any better!”

“You really should look at it,” Keiko pressed. “The calligraphy is gorgeous. It’s not what the words say, it’s the beauty of the actual lettering on the scroll.”

“It’s definitely worth a gander,” O’Brien added.

“High praise,” said Ro. “Well, maybe I’ll take a peek.” They exchanged smiles, and she again meandered through the crowd, pausing when she spotted the line leading to the former employees’ lounge.

Oh, why not, she decided, walking toward the front of the line. There, she found one of Quark’s employees—Fool? No, Frool—rather futilely attempting to maintain a queue of inebriated businessmen.

“Stay in line,” he was shouting at the unruly men. “And stop pushing. It won’t get you in any faster.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” growled one of them. “Do you know who I am?”

“Are you in need of some assistance here?” Ro asked Frool, attempting to look stern. “I can bring in station security.”

The crowd quieted down as she glared at them, and the line straightened imperceptibly. A couple of men looked annoyed, probably because a female had displayed the audacity to tell them what to do.

“No, please, Captain—we don’t need any security here,” Frool said nervously. “These gentlemen just don’t understand that it’s a very tiny room and we can’t let in more than ten at a time. If they’d just be patient—”

Suddenly a small green light activated next to his station.

“Okay,” he shouted. “The next ten. And I mean TEN!” He opened the door, and as a group filed in, Ro slipped in among them, almost losing her balance as they pushed forward.

Hmmm. Maybe he’s right—eleven is too many. Struggling to free herself from between two overly stout Ferengi, she suddenly popped out, like a cork from a wine bottle—and bumped into Quark, standing at his post in a corner.

“Well, hello, Captain,” he said with a smile. “What a pleasant surprise! It’s nice of you to stop by. You’re going to enjoy this.” Lowering the lights, he reached down to push a button, and the air—what little there was of it in the tiny room—suddenly filled with music. Strange music that sounded almost “crunchy” to Ro’s Bajoran ears, with occasionally shifting tones that may have been a melody, or possibly a mistake. And then she heard a voice—Quark’s, Ro assumed, digitally manipulated to sound ancient and ethereal. It began a recitation:

“It was over ten thousand years ago . . .”

Still working behind the bar, Hetik fervently wished that he was back at the dabo table. He was mixing yet another Starduster when he noticed that the trays on the closest serving table were nearly empty. Again. Looking around for a spare pair of hands, he spotted the new server and called to him.

“Hey, Issa!” he called out, pointing to the table. “We need food at station seven! Replicate thirty-five more parthas soufflés. And thirty-five Gramilian sand pea biscuits. And another fifty portions of pulverized snail steak pâté. And step on it!”

Issa hustled over to the nearest replicator and stared at it, a concerned look on his face. He’d never operated a big commercial machine like this. It was imposing, intimidating even. The one in his moogie’s kitchen was tiny; it hung under a cabinet.

He started giving the order. “Computer,” he said, “I need thirty-five parthas soufflés, and thirty-five Gramilian sand pea biscuits, and, uh, fifty pulverized snail steak pâté plates. And I need all of them right away!”

The replicator made some random clicking sounds, and then . . . absolutely nothing happened. Issa decided to let it know he was still there. “Computer?” he said.

The automated voice stated: “Attempting to comply.”

Another second passed. Nothing.

“Issa!” hollered Hetik. “Where’s that food?”

“Coming, coming!” he hollered back.

But nothing was happening.

Issa did what he often did at home, giving the machine a smack. “Come on, stupid!” he growled.

The replicator made a series of curious beeps. Then it said, “Attempting to comply. Attempting to . . . to . . . to . . . com . . . com . . . com . . .”

Issa heard a faint rumble as the machine’s lights began to blink rapidly. Oh, good. It’s working . . .

And then a glutinous mixture of soggy biscuits, pâté, and soufflé gushed out of the pickup window, covering his feet with the stinky mess. A loud electronic squeal issued from the replicator’s control board, followed by a blinding flash. And suddenly—the lights throughout the embassy went dark.

A partygoer cried out in fear: “It’s a raid!” That triggered several additional shouts. “What kinda raid?” “It’s the FCA!” “It’s the—” And then the lights flashed on again. Then off again. On again. And then they stayed on. The party guests looked around nervously, wondering what had just happened.

Behind the bar, Hetik had only to look at Issa’s feet to know.

Inside the “scroll room,” as Quark had come to think of it, Quark counted ten paying patrons—plus Ro, who, he suspected, hadn’t paid. Not that he minded her presence. I’ll take the fee out of Frool’s pay and tell him it’s for bad counting.

As the anticipated oooohing and ahhhhhing kicked in, Quark happily noted that Ro seemed as impressed with the scroll as the Ferengi in the room. Well, all except for that Ferengi, he thought, grinding his teeth.

There was Brunt, standing in the far corner, obviously not the least bit impressed, his lips twisted with disdain. There’s that toxic effect of his, Quark noted. He decided to ask Brunt to leave, but he hadn’t taken a step when the room suddenly plunged into darkness.

Quark heard several gasps, then a slap, a loud “OWW!” and Ro’s voice snarling “Back off!”

And just as suddenly, the lights flashed back on, strobed a bit, and settled back to normal. Quark looked around the room. Four of the Ferengi businessmen were cowering, curled up on the floor; one was trying to get out the door; three were holding on to each other; another—the one who’d been standing closest to Ro—was rubbing the side of his face; and Ro was swatting her communicator badge. “Commander Blackmer, report!” she said. As for Brunt . . .

Brunt had pushed forward and was standing next to the pedestal, staring wide-eyed at the scroll—Gint’s magnificent antique scroll—as it shimmered, faded, and flickered. The only thing that remained constant in its appearance was an electronic outline.

Quark’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

A low muttering spread around the room. “It’s not real,” said the stout Ferengi to Ro’s right. “Is it . . . a hologram?” asked the even stouter Ferengi to his right. “A hologram?” echoed another businessman. “We paid to see a hologram?”

“Wait! No, it can’t be a hologram,” Quark shouted. “It’s real. My brother brought it from—”

The muttering escalated to an angry rumble. But Brunt, interestingly, no longer looked angry. He looked delighted. “It’s a fake,” he shouted. “A fake!” He pointed a finger at the shimmering image on the pedestal and roared, “FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!” Then his eyes settled on Quark. Raising his finger to point directly at his old nemesis, he roared again: “FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!”