PRELUDE

2371 AC

Bartleby squinted at the illuminated parchment.

Almost finished, he thought.

He flicked his tongue into a kylix of saltmarsh tea, sipped several drams of the refreshing liquid, then peered at his collection of antique quills, brushes, reeds, and styluses.

The Gunji jackdaw perhaps, he thought, picking up a downy quill. He examined the blunt nib, frowned, and carefully laid the quill back in its case. Too wide. Slowly wavering his foreped above the collection, the Kalpazan paused several times before moving on. Ah, the Terellian pheasant, he thought finally, and he lifted the rachis closer to the light. Plucked from under the wing. Very delicate—not unlike the flavor of the donor’s flesh. Perhaps I’ll partake of some at the conclusion of this transaction.

The Kalpazan dipped the quill’s nib into a tiny well of liquid latinum, turned to balance the nib lightly above the parchment, and, with a sudden twist of his furry wrist, drew an elaborate swirl under the final line of text. Perfect, he thought. No one will suspect.

He polished the tip of the quill and returned the tool to its case, then glanced at his cluttered worktable. Now where did I put my alterizing beacon? He reached under a carelessly folded tapestry woven with figures of bateret leaves that lay across a toppled El-Aurian Angel of Flame crucible. I really must straighten this place up one day, he thought. Pulling a customized palm beacon from under the tapestry, he checked the setting carefully. Then slowly, very slowly, he passed the beacon’s ray over the parchment. The parchment shriveled. The colors transformed. The delicate work of art grew darker, a little murky—older, somehow. Finally he set the alterizer down, rolled the parchment into a scroll, and laid it next to another, identical, scroll. Then he carefully slid the scrolls into metallic cylinders, each elaborately decorated in ancient Ferengi motifs.

Leaning on his cane, Bartleby shuffled to the entrance of his workroom and opened the door. “Finished!” he said to his waiting client. “I think your employer will be quite pleased.” Placing the cylinders into the client’s hands, he stated, “Now remember, the original is in this cylinder, and the copy is in here. Do not mix them up.”

The client stared at the two cylinders for a long moment, then grunted in confirmation. Placing three bricks of latinum on the counter, he turned and left the dilapidated hovel.

As the echo of footsteps faded into the distance, Bartleby smiled and began to think about lunch.