CHAPTER FOUR
“Mary had a little
lamb…”
– Nursery
Rhyme
Whenever Luciano Mantovanni compiled his internal list of “least
favorite places,” Deep Space Nine always
occupied a prominent spot in the top ten, a notch or two above Purgatory … and
a few below Perdition.
Of course, the local architecture didn’t do a lot to improve that
perspective. It resembled nothing so much as an immense, grasping claw, and
while its hold on and over Bajor had changed though the decades, “Terok Nor” had never truly loosed its
grip. Certain Bajorans could call it
“their” station all they liked, as if they had somehow themselves reshaped it
to their needs, both physical and spiritual; but the facts remained: it had
been built by their enemies, was administered by their protectors … and crawled
with “aliens” of every shape and mindset. In Mantovanni’s opinion, a prayer mat
or two, some banners and less than a decade of uneasy occupancy couldn’t change
that.
Considering what had
gone on here, it was, in some ways, like painting a smiley face on a tomb.
He wondered, not for the first time, how all of it may have
affected Benjamin Sisko. After all, insofar as the Bajorans were concerned,
Cardassian design worked famously in this case: they were all too happy to look
reverently up at the Emissary, as he gazed beneficently down upon them.
Hard enough not to
become self-important when you aren’t particularly important—let alone when you
are.
The welcoming party remained conspicuous in its absence.
Perhaps that has
something to do with not being particularly welcome.
He was about to commence a stroll towards ops…
…when what at first glance appeared to be a Ferengi youth in a
Starfleet uniform tore around the corner and saw him—far too late. He twisted,
managing to avoid a collision with his superior … but hadn’t taken into account
the bulkhead. Mantovanni grabbed his arm en
passant, preventing said rendezvous—barely.
“All stop, Lieutenant.”
The lad regained his balance at once. His bearing, though, needed
a moment more.
“Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!
“Answering all stop, sir.”
Mantovanni suppressed a smile.
Heh. Good recovery, kid.
“First glance” had been correct.
The infamous Nog. Makes
quite an entrance… though I doubt the wall would have been impressed.
“Permission to come aboard, Lieutenant?”
That, at least, gave him somewhere to start.
“Granted, sir.”
And once he got started…
"Welcome to Deep Space
Nine, Captain Mantovanni. It’s a great honor, sir. Colonel Kira sends her
apologies for not greeting you herself. The problem is DS9 is a multi-jurisdiction station. She has a lot of docu-PADDS to
sign, as a result. Since she herself hates being kept waiting, she wanted me to
personally assure you that this is not some sort of tactic, regarding your
talk."
Mantovanni arched a brow, but at first gave no other response. Nog
didn’t yet know how the game was played… but Kira, despite that “freedom
fighter in way over her head” persona
she wore like a badge, obviously did.
Maybe that’s why she
sent this little lamb: She knew I wouldn’t slaughter him.
“Well,” Mantovanni replied, a touch of irony flavoring his tone, “a personal assurance is another matter
entirely, Lieutenant.”
The younger man either took no offense … or, more likely, took no
notice.
Nog seemed to exude earnestness, a trait fortunately still typical
of most junior officers even in the postwar galaxy. His pips shone from recent
replication, obsessive polishing or both, which probably bespoke the fact that
his rank didn’t quite seem real to
him—a little surprising if true, since Ferengi were a notoriously
status-conscious people as pertained to personal fortune … and rank, in its
way, served as fortune for many Starfleet officers.
Well … at first
impression, a far cry from the typical blustering Ferengi I’ve encountered.
If a valid observation, though, it made perfect sense. Benjamin
Sisko, after all, had seen qualities in Nog inspiring enough to sponsor him
into the Academy … and, likely, uniqueness of character had reckoned into that
choice. The first and so-far-only Ferengi in Starfleet, it seemed, was
representing his people by being atypical of his people.
“–gain, it is such a great
honor to meet you. I get chills reading about the victory the 13th
won at Teska IV… and what you did at Cardassia Prime…! But what I don’t un–
ohh, sorry, sir. Permission to speak?"
Mantovanni appreciated respect, but this kid was practically
genuflecting.
“Speak? Yes.”
His tone cooled a few degrees.
“Gush? No.”
At that rebuff, his escort fell silent—not precisely crushed, but
more than a bit crumpled.
Silently, they wound their way through the station’s innards—so far as Mantovanni could
tell, though, neither towards ops nor the guest quarters.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Nog dithering nervously. Three
times, the younger man looked on the verge of speaking … and then didn’t.
He chided himself.
Well, that was a bit like kicking
a sehlat cub … but I’m just not in
the mood for yet another glowing review of my exploits.
Still…
"I may not have been chummy about it, but I did grant you permission to speak,
Mister Nog. If you have something to say, don’t swallow it."
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Immediately, he asked, “Did you worry
that your attack on the Central Command might have been a catalyst for…?”
His voice trailed off … but he’d gotten far enough.
Again, Mantovanni smothered a grin.
And the cub has fangs.
“…for the assault on Earth? I have little doubt it was retaliatory, Lieutenant … but I don’t blame
myself. If Earth had been comprehensively, or even competently, defended, the
Breen would never have gotten near
it. Too many admirals and Council members espoused an absurd ‘the Dominion
wouldn’t dare’ mentality—even though
they’d planted a bomb at the Antwerp Conference of 2372.”
Nog nodded.
“Yes, sir. I agree, sir. Captain Sisko said something similar—that
your successful attack on the Central Command should have made Starfleet even more paranoid about protecting Earth, in
case the Dominion tried a … a … ‘tat for tat’?”
“‘Tit for tat’ … and
Captain Sisko was absolutely right.”
In this case.
Mantovanni and DS9’s
renowned commander hadn’t exactly gotten on famously
when they’d met—though, admittedly, the problem had been one more of
circumstance than genuine acrimony.
With Kira Nerys, though ... there, the acrimony was both genuine and mutual. Professionals, though, did
their duty; he and Kira would do theirs—perhaps not happily, but happiness
didn’t enter into either the equation or
the job description.
They stepped into the central hub, and onto the famed Promenade.
The last time he’d done so, Mantovanni had nearly cringed at the
near-overwhelming crush of ‘humanity’: Deep
Space Nine had served over the last few years as a haven for the war weary,
a symbol of the Federation’s resistance and even a commerce center—despite the
conflict raging near, and sometimes around, the station.
Things, however, had changed.
From what he’d been told, the demographics here had been much more
cosmopolitan even a few months ago. Now, a quick, preliminary head count showed
a much greater percentage of Bajorans
than he’d ever seen aboard. An unusually slow day or week might possibly
account for such a skew, but the briefings he’d read implied something much
more disturbing … and, if events proceeded as they very well might, perhaps
permanent.
"Sir? While you're waiting for Colonel Kira, may I
respectfully suggest we go to Quark’s?
I've been told to stay with you and see to any needs you may have.”
Mantovanni ignored the petty part of his mind urging him to
suggest that his “needs” consisted of a runabout and a course plotted for
In the moments it took them to cross the Promenade, he found himself
hoping the bar would be packed, but no such luck. If anything, the crunch had
hit especially hard, here. Mantovanni
was no financial wizard, granted; but, right now, Quark’s didn’t seem like much of an investment opportunity. The
bartender had the look of already having polished every glass to gleaming
readiness ... but that didn’t stop him from continuing the process. The dabo girl was practically asleep at the
wheel. Even the bar’s most notable fixture, the loquacious Morn, sat
quiet—practically quiescent.
I hope nobody’s living
off their tips.
The employees outnumbered the patrons, and the patrons—at least
one in particular…
…looked awfully familiar.
Vaerth Parihn wanted… needed…
to have fun.
Unfortunately, the enjoyment of certain sensations, the indulgence
of specific vices, often involved an … immersion … of which Starfleet didn’t
really approve—at least not in a former courtesan. Humans, despite their
laudable open-mindedness on many issues, were notoriously fastidious and myopic
when it came to pleasures of the flesh … and, because of her past, she
understood the need for her to fly straighter than the next officer—even if the
next officer had come from the Mather Colonies.
There were no doubt other reasons, of course, but she hadn’t been
feeling particularly introspective.
She had, however, been
feeling particularly thirsty; and that, at least, was a vice she could indulge
without getting into trouble—well, not too
much trouble, anyway.
The waitress arrived, at long last, with her order—blue porter, a
difficult-to-get-just-right concoction consisting of five parts Romulan ale,
one part Klingon bloodwine and various rare Orion spices. Her server placed the
drink and withdrew, without even asking whether she required anything else.
Though such was a typical unconscious ‘rival female’ reaction to an Orion
animal woman, that didn’t mean she had to like it.
A distracted Parihn brought the drink to her lips … tasting,
swallowing … thinking, It’s not as if I
were sitting in her boyfriend’s la–
Before she could restrain herself, her body reacted … and she
nearly retched, spraying liquid all over the table and nearly giving her
Andorian neighbors at the next one a blue porter shower.
If you could call this vlek blue porter, that is.
She crooked her finger at the waitress—who returned, wearing a
barely-suppressed smirk that didn’t exactly endear her to the customer.
“This is not real kalivah,” Parihn asserted. “It’s…” and
she practically spat the last word,
too, “…replicated.”
Far from apologetic, the girl was instead openly combative—her
neck gills flaring, practically flapping, in challenge.
“You can’t prove that.”
Only then did Parihn
smile.
Mantovanni couldn’t help but smile: Nog had, for all intents and
purposes, forgotten his charge was there.
Vaerth Parihn had his undivided
attention.
The captain cleared his throat, slightly… and got no reaction.
“Lieutenant.”
Nog tilted his head in what seemed a peculiar fashion; Mantovanni
realized that he was adjusting for reception … and, now, listening in on
Parihn’s conversation with what appeared to be an Aquan waitress.
Impressive … and
inappropriate.
Drily, he inquired, “Practicing for your stint in surveillance
with Starfleet Intelligence, Lieutenant?”
For a moment, Nog looked fishier than the waitress did, mouth
working like a guppy as he fully realized just what he’d been doing… and in front of whom he’d been doing it.
The young Ferengi shook his head—either in denial, to clear
cobwebs, or both.
“I–I’m sorry, sir! I don’t know what came over me.”
Oh yes, you do, Mantovanni thought.
At that point, though, eavesdropping became unnecessary, as Vaerth
Parihn made her opinion known—to everyone within five parsecs.
Ears perked up … antennae oriented … and heads turned.
Mantovanni sighed.
For all her education and erudition, the woman he knew had,
despite herself, always had something of a potty mouth—especially when her
temper got the better of her. Recently, though, she’d more often than not used
it with care and calculation, employing invective far more judiciously than she
once had.
She seemed to be having a setback.
The universal translator in their communicators failed to render a
good 75% of what she was saying … but he himself didn’t have any problem with
the Sicilian curse words.
Sometimes I think the
most profitable aspect of our relationship for her has been the expansion of
her profanity vocabulary, Mantovanni thought. The woman gives new meaning to the phrase
‘color commentary.’
Even as the waitress fell back, appalled, Parihn fell silent … or,
rather spoke softly.
“Uh oh,” murmured Nog. He abruptly realized he was doing it again, and
made as if to apologize once more, but…
“Go ahead.”
“She said, ‘Get out here, you repugnant little vika, unless you want to see me give new
meaning to the phrases ‘lewd and lascivious conduct’ and ‘public indecency.’ You know me … I’ll close this place down.”
Mantovanni arched a curious brow.
“‘She said’ to whom?”
Nog pointed.
“To him.”
Quark reached her table only seconds after she’d spoken.
It didn’t look like a
conciliatory visit from the management.
Directly behind her, someone cleared their throat—seeking her
attention, she assumed. Parihn turned to find a Ferengi male, his scrawny arms
folded, regarding her with an expression somewhere between disdainful and
contemptuous.
He asked, “Who let you
wiggle in here? Amateur night’s tomorrow, little girl.”
Parihn’s lip curled.
“‘Amateur,’ eh? Watch your mouth, you execrable little
slug-sucker. I should have known a Ferengi was running this place. Only one of them would plaster their name on the
sign—so they could remember how to spell it instead of just scrawling an ‘x’ on
all their invoices.”
“At least I own something
besides the clothes on my back. Oh, wait … considering how seldom your kind
actually wears them, they’re probably
rentals, loaners, or most likely stolen,
aren’t they?”
As the insults flew, Morn gaped, head bobbing as his gaze shifted
from one to the other and back again. He’d never heard Quark so vicious … and
the pretty little green girl was actually holding her own. Realizing he’d
missed an entire exchange, the Lurian returned his attention to the action.
“–an Orion. We were the greatest entertainers and entrepreneurs in
the galaxy half a million years before the first slime-covered proto-Ferengi
began plotting to steal his neighbor’s dry patch on that muckheap planet you
call home.”
Her opponent rose to the challenge yet again.
Quark sneered, “The key word in that sentence is ‘were.’ Old news,
female … if I want a lesson in ancient
history I’ll talk to a hu-man.
While you Orions were losing your
empire, losing your profits and losing what little lobes you had, we Ferengi
were taking stock … taking latinum … and generally taking over.”
For almost five seconds, they matched glares … and then Parihn’s
evolved into a smile.
“See?” she scolded good-naturedly. “You’re really still very good at this.”
Quark shrugged.
“Thank you, but … I’m out of practice. Too much time as a … ugh …
‘barkeep,’” he said, employing a peculiar accent on the last word. He appraised
her again, setting most of his leer aside as a professional courtesy, and
continued, “It’s good to see you, Shom– uh, Parihn—though I have to admit, I
would have liked to see a lot more of
you.”
Even as she stood, Parihn rolled her eyes. That seemed to be a
recurring theme amongst the Ferengi who’d known her during that past lifetime:
Grand Nagus Zek, upon seeing her again some time ago, had said something
similar.
Indicating the faux
porter, she grimaced.
“I assume this swill is
some sort of message? Surely you
didn’t think I wouldn’t notice?”
Quark flashed a toothy grin.
“Just testing you—seeing if you’re still as discriminating as you
were.”
She snorted.
He chuckled, and gestured rather expansively to the waitress.
“Get the lady a blue porter, and use the good stuff. No, not that… the real good stuff.”
Now the Aquan looked like a fish out of water. Stunned, she shuffled off to comply.
Quark drew near, and slipped a companionable arm around Parihn’s
waist.
“Step into my office,” he murmured. “We’ll talk old times… and business.”
Of course, his arm couldn’t just stay at her waist. That wouldn’t have been Quark, and they both
knew it. He was a Ferengi, after all:
one could only expect so much.
The Orion smiled sweetly.
“I’d tell you to take your hand off my ass, Quark, but I know how
much you enjoy it…”
She added a cold breeze to her sunny expression.
“…and you know it’s as far as
you’ll ever get.”
While the Ferengi's smile never wavered, he wisely withdrew his
hand to neutral territory…
…and, a little to her own surprise, Parihn allowed him to lead her
into the back.