CHAPTER ELEVEN
“The world wants
to be deceived”
– Petronius
While
approaching the table at which her prospective husband and his small entourage waited,
Vaerth Parihn realized that for all her
experiences—including more than a few entertaining three men simultaneously—one
in particular had eluded her.
In almost a
decade of interacting with humans, she had never actually been on what they
called ‘a date.’
Even on this
occasion, Parihn had only reluctantly agreed—in some measure since Jake had
practically begged her to at least meet
with Nog … but in larger part because by doing so
before her show, she could fulfill the unwanted commitment and yet employ a
ready-made excuse to depart whenever in her estimation it became necessary.
From what
Parihn had heard, this “date” wasn’t exactly shaping up as typical of the
process, either. The three men stood as she neared them, each sporting a
different expression: Nog’s eager; Jake’s apologetic
and slightly put upon; and that of the third man friendly, but discerning as
well. For an instant, he had her complete attention: Not only was he
distinguished-looking in a way she very much appreciated, there was something
about him that reminded her of
What that was became apparent during
introductions.
Jake cleared
his throat.
“Vaerth Parihn … Vic Fontaine. He runs this club.”
“Right into
the ground, according to my accountants,” Vic said, then flashed an easy smile
that let her know he was quite accustomed to charming women out of everything
from loose change to a tight dress. “Welcome to—”
“—the
Strip,” Parihn finished. She answered the trio of startled faces with an amused
smile.
“I’m a showgirl, gentlemen. Do you really think I’d not have heard of
Vic laughed,
and nudged Nog.
“You’d
better be careful, pally. This one’s got the lobes and the gams.”
Before anyone could comment, he added, “Well, no rest for the wicked. I’ve got
a band rarin’ to go, and a trio o’ payin’ customers. You kids have a good time.” And with
that, he headed for the stage.
Jake took
his own cue.
“And this,” he said, placing a supportive
hand on the young Ferengi’s shoulder, “is my best
friend: Lieutenant (junior grade) Nog, Assistant
Chief of Operations for Deep Space Nine.”
He met her
eyes for only a second, blushed and looked away. In that instant, Parihn had
confirmed what she’d already suspected: This wasn’t your typical Ferengi.
And, just
like that, he’d already found a place in her heart.
She made
what was no doubt a rash decision, but hesitated not in the least.
“I am in
receipt of your financial disclosure,” Parihn told him, “and shall entertain
the prospect of a merger.”
Nog’s eyes widened. He clearly hadn’t expected
the traditional response ... and almost forgot his own reply.
“T–then let
us begin preliminary negotiations.”
He proffered
a strip of gold-pressed latinum.
“To
compensate for your invested time.”
She took it,
hefted to check the mass, gave it the ritual bite … and nodded her approval of
the bribe.
Jake at this
point had given into what he no doubt thought was the absurdity of the
situation, but to his credit managed and retained a straight face—at least
until Vic and the band launched into a rendition of “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best
Friend.”
Then he
began to lose it.
“I have to
use the … excuse me.” He snorted once, and made a dash for what she assumed
were the restrooms, managing to round the corner before a shriek of laughter
escaped.
Nog glared for an instant, then sighed.
“My best friend,” he said,
shaking his head. He held her chair and Parihn sat.
She chuckled
inwardly.
‘Hu-mans’ don’t see things the way we do, Nog. Jake doesn’t comprehend that for a Ferengi,
this is as romantic as it gets.
He’d
understood enough, though: When,
during their previous holodeck encounter, Parihn had finally acquiesced, Jake’s
relief had turned immediately to concern. He’d stepped forward, gently grasped
her shoulders, and urged, “Please don’t hurt him.”
Now, as she
watched Nog, spoke with him, and saw him for who he
was, Parihn recalled her aggrieved, but honest, response.
“You know
your friend, and I know men,” she’d said.
“It’s already too late for that.”
***
Sito Jaxa could
be quite persuasive when she exerted herself; but no amount of coaxing had
availed to convince Kira Nerys
that the younger woman should be remanded, even temporarily, into her former
commander’s custody. Instead, she had chosen another option, and released Sito on her own
recognizance. The action itself adroitly made a threefold statement—none of
which escaped the beneficiary of her largesse.
Likes me … dislikes Captain Mantovanni … and despises Marek
Tathon.
Despite
that, she’d thanked the colonel … and then proceeded directly to a certain
guest quarters—as Kira had no doubt known she would.
For months, Sito had been desperate for the opportunity to speak with
him—to hear his counsel, or perhaps just his voice. She’d even made a few
silent entreaties to that effect during one of her innumerable, interminable visits to Emissary’s onboard shrine for mandatory
services.
Having those
pleas answered in this particular fashion, however, didn’t exactly bolster her
faith.
Amidst a
debriefing that she knew probably felt more like a deluge, Sito
told him that.
“Then
again,” she added, “I’m really getting what I deserve, aren’t I? Half-hearted
prayers no doubt inspire…”
“…a
half-assed response?” Mantovanni finished. They exchanged acerbic smiles, and
he observed, “I never would have thought you one to espouse the ‘cosmic quid pro quo,’ Jaxa.
Unless I’m sorely mistaken, we’re only supposed to anthropomorphize when it
makes the gods look better.”
“Really? I
suppose that depends on what you want the gods to look like, sir.”
She again
took a seat beside him, and reactivated the sunken-desk viewer they’d been
perusing intermittently throughout their conversation.
“For example
… I never wanted to envision them through that
man’s eyes.”
Vedek Yahael, at
this point in the speech, had worked himself into a palpable fervor.
In both
senses of the term, they had heard it all before. That, unfortunately, didn’t make listening to it again any easier.
Sito would have liked to see just how the
Assembly had reacted at various points during his monologue—more like ‘diatribe,’ she thought—but
procedure and decorum dictated that only the speaker be recorded in such
instances.
Thus, the
focus was entirely on Yahael. He held their
attention…
…and, with
difficulty, Sito Jaxa held
her gorge.
***
In all the
ways that mattered, Nog wasn’t as young as Parihn had
thought.
He was
younger.
She had of
course understood from those first tentative conversational forays that Nog was attempting to construct an airtight justification
for their merger—all the while terrified of saying the wrong thing and
displeasing her. Jake, after his hasty withdrawal to regroup, had upon
returning taken the solicitor’s job very seriously—pouring the wine and serving
the food, interjecting amusing anecdotes when his friend’s eloquence flagged,
telling a number of stories in which Nog had figured
prominently … and even in a few, heroically. All in all, he made the young Ferengi look like an excellent catch.
Only once
had his composure wavered—when, early on, Parihn had reached across to Nog’s plate, speared a sautéed tube grub, chewed it into a
disgusting maché … and then offered it back. Even Nog had been for an instant stunned; then, he’d happily opened
his mouth to receive it, looking in that moment more like a hungry little bird
than a man in love.
At the
sight, Jake had nearly lost his own
dinner.
When in Rome, Mr. Sisko.
Parihn had
suppressed a smile.
What a pair.
Nog and Jake, she suddenly recalled, had also been involved at the
tail-end of USS Valiant’s
ill-fated adventure. A subsequent tribunal had cleared him on dereliction of
duty charges for not taking command of the ship upon boarding her ... but it
had neither been a unanimous nor popular decision. Public opinion (and the
hearing had, unfortunately for the young Ferengi,
been a very public one) had been
mostly against him, at first. His attorney, though, a very capable JAG lawyer
named John Ross—son of the famous admiral—had pointed out that one could hardly
exonerate one young man, “Captain” Tim Watters, for taking command of a
starship, while condemning an even younger Nog for
not relieving him. The counter-argument, that Nog had
already been an officer for quite
some time while Red Squad had possessed only field commissions, didn’t hold up
under scrutiny: such ranks, no matter the circumstances of receipt, were valid until reviewed by Starfleet
Personnel, in large part because it had always been understood that no
competent officer would do something so irresponsible as, say, give a cadet a
major command. Yet, having no choice, that’s exactly what Fleet Captain Ramirez
had done. Whether anyone liked it or not, Watters had been a captain; he never should have been, granted … but he had been.
Parihn had followed the trial with interest, after having realized
that Valiant had frequented some of
the same space the 13th had, yet had never linked up with her own exiled group.
It hadn’t been too difficult, on reflection, to discern why she
had never joined the task force: Tim Watters had been made a captain … and he’d
had no intention of subjecting himself to any authority that could undo
that—that could undermine or interfere with his destiny.
Too bad. Valiant could have been
quite an asset to us—wielded by adults, that is.
It was that realization
which decided her to bring this part of the evening to its climax.
“Jake … could you give us a few minutes alone? I have a show in a
half-hour, and Nog deserves an answer before I go get
ready.”
He glanced at both—one hopeful, the other unreadable—and, nodding,
beat a smooth but swift retreat.
Parihn did her absolute best, was as gentle as she could be; and,
as the Orion left Vic’s to get
dressed for her first number, prayed that rather than shattering Nog’s heart, she’d minimized
the damage…
…and merely broken it instead.