TO CELEBRATE THE REOPENING of the Promenade and his casino, Quark had hung colored banners over the; doorway and announced new prices for all imported drinks. The Ferengi gambler stood proudly in the doorway of his brightly lit establishment, effusively inviting all passersby to step in, enjoy themselves. Quark was small in stature, as all Ferengi were, but his instincts for profit were limitless. To those few veteran customers who pointed out that his new prices were higher than what he'd charged before the place was closed, Quark apologized with an obsequious, sharp-toothed grin and reduced the amount, blaming his bartender for the error.
Inside, the casino's decor was riotous with flashing red and yellow lights and a great deal of sparkling surface. The long gleaming bar invited customers to sit and have a drink, scantily dressed Dabo girls smiled and invited them to come up to the gaming tables and lose their money, but it was not a particularly festive crowd that gathered to drink or gamble away their cares. People would wonder aloud where the next bomb was going to go off, looking nervously around behind them. Others complained that they couldn't get any business done with all the security uniforms watching over their shoulders every minute. Why didn't they go somewhere else and arrest more terrorists, let honest traders alone?
At a corner table, a group of a half-dozen crewmen off the Swift Striker were keeping a waiter running back and forth with full pitchers of synthale. It was the cheapest drink they could buy at Quark's, but they were making up for it in volume.
The Cardassians had serious grievances.
"Eight hours' liberty! Do you know, they've got holosuites upstairs that'll keep you going for eight hours straight?"
"Yeah, when I was here before, I ran this one: there were these two Bajorans, see …"
"I tore off all her clothes …"
"And then she got on her knees …"
"So I took this whip …"
"And she was begging me …"
Inspired by their reminiscences, the crewmen stared longingly at the door to the holosuites, but their passes expired in less than an hour, and they had barely enough time left to get seriously drunk before it was time to check back in at the ship. Being late was something none of them wanted to risk. "Hey!" they yelled for the waiter. "We're dry here! More synthale!"
A passing couple of Bajoran miners gave them a look of loathing and contempt. One of the Cardassians saw it, started to stagger up from his seat, snarling, "I'll show those farking scum they can't look at me that way! What do they think they are?"
But his companions were sober enough to pull him back down. "Kulat! Remember the Gul's orders, no fighting! Not even if they start it."
"Yeah, think about what he did to poor Lok!"
Kulat subsided and sullenly drained another mug of ale. "Lok still hanging, is he?"
The others nodded. One said, "Yeah. You shoulda heard him this morning. I took a couple whacks at him—not much, just to see him kick a little. He could barely squeal."
They all laughed at the image of their suffering crewmate, except for Kulat, who poured the rest of his synthale down his thickly corded throat and yelled for more. "Can't do anything around this place," he muttered. "Deck police all over the place."
One of his companions agreed. "Looking for that traitor, Berat. I want to be there when the Gul hangs him, that's for sure!"
"I'd like a cut of that reward," another crewman added.
"Too much farking security," Kulat muttered. "And Bajorans! Bajoran security! And farking Starfleet. Man comes to a station, he wants some liberty, hang it! One shift. Eight hours! Can't even get drunk in eight hours."
Suddenly the rest of the Cardassian crew sat bolt upright, frightened into near-sobriety. Only Kulat, whose back was to the door, kept up his litany of complaints as a smiling Gul Marak walked into the gambling hall accompanied by the Klystron ambassador.
Quark hurried in the Gul's wake, drawn by his unerring instinct for profit and advantage. "Your Excellencies! Ambassador! Gul! Welcome to Quark's! How can my modest establishment serve you?"
Marak held up a gold piece between two fingers. "We'd like a private suite. Where we can talk undisturbed. And a new bottle of your best imported Rigellian brandy. None of your local swill."
Quark's eyes glinted, and he executed a low bow. "My establishment can accommodate Your Excellencies. I can tell that you are both persons of taste and discrimination. Please come with me. I'll escort you to our most discreet private accommodation. And when you've finished your discussion, if you'd like more entertainment—"
"Just bring the brandy and get out," snapped Marak.
"Of course. Right away. Our very best Rigellian brandy." Hurrying to the bar, Quark hissed at his nephew Nog, who was serving as a waiter, "That table in the corner, they want more synthale!"
But the Swift Striker's crewmen were already on the way back to their ship, dragging the reluctant Kulat, every other man thanking his own patron diety that the Gul hadn't spotted them in Quark's Place.
Once Quark had left the brandy with them and shut the door of the suite behind him, Marak sat down on one of the couches and cracked the seal on the bottle. "I hope this is drinkable," he told the Klystron ambassador. "As you can see, standards in this part of space have declined." He took a sip. "Not too bad, actually."
The Klystron took a sip of his own drink. "Well, you wished a private conversation, and they tell me this is as private a place as exists on the station."
Marak nodded briskly. "You've seen enough of conditions here to know what I'm talking about. This is what things are like under Bajoran control. When DS-Nine was a Cardassian station, let me tell you, we had order. Systems functioned properly, people knew their place, and commerce and trade thrived. As it will thrive again, when the right people are back in charge."
"Meaning Cardassians, I suppose." The Klystron sipped his brandy speculatively. "No, you haven't made a secret of your intentions."
"And why should we? This region of space is ours by right. We occupied it for years, and we only lost it through treachery."
"According to your government, that is."
"According to the legitimate government," Marak corrected him grimly. "The traitors have been eliminated."
"Indeed, so I understand. But the Federation has upheld Bajor's claim."
Marak ignored that. "Tell me, do you really want to do business with the Bajorans? Look around you! Look how they've let this station deteriorate. Nothing functions, from the docking systems down to the food replicators. And look how they welcome the ambassadors who've come in good faith to negotiate. With sabotage and terrorism."
"I understand that they already have the suspect in that bombing locked up in detention. The Bajoran representatives have been at great pains to assure us that they don't sanction any kind of terrorist activity."
Marak snorted in contempt. "Bajoran representatives! They were all terrorists themselves! And this first officer, this Kira female—she was known to our intelligence as a member of one of the most notorious organizations: a group called Shazaan or something. I wish we'd been able to get our hands on her then. But now—she's practically in command of this station. That's who's investigating this bombing! A former terrorist. That's the kind of commitment you can expect from a Bajoran government.
"No, if you want to know about Bajoran treachery, ask a Cardassian. Ask that innocent merchant whose shop was bombed the other day, who was almost killed."
The ambassador stared thoughtfully into his brandy. "One does hear that there were Cardassian … excesses during your occupation."
"Sewer gas! Rumors! Lies! Cardassian rule was firm. The Bajorans needed a firm hand over them to keep them in order. Look at them now: factions fighting constantly, fighting each other. Setting bombs on their own station. They can't even agree on trade with the Gamma Quadrant! It seems it might violate their religion or some such stupidity."
"This is certainly true. I've sat through a few sessions with them already. But, of course, one does have to point out, Bajor is their homeworld. They might have had cause to object to Cardassian occupation."
Marak waved his hand dismissingly. "As far as I'm concerned, the Bajorans can keep their filthy planet. If you'd ever seen the place, you'd understand why. But this space station and the territory it controls—we'll never renounce our right to it!"
"And to the wormhole."
"The wormhole is in Cardassian territory. Naturally we insist on controlling it."
The Klystron contemplated the color of his brandy again. "If," he said finally, "one were to—hypothetically—accept that your position with respect to the wormhole is valid, how would Klystron benefit from Cardassian control of this territory?" He looked directly at Marak. "Why should we prefer you to the Bajorans?"
Marak poured more brandy, now that they had finally breken through to the point. "With Cardassian control, you have order, stability. Your traders will be able to dock at DS-Nine knowing there won't be a fanatic setting off a bomb in the airlock. And, of course, you'd have the most favorable terms possible in such matters as duties, tariffs, exchange rates, station charges and fees."
The ambassador leaned forward toward him very slightly. "Exactly … how favorable?"
"Ah. If an influential world like Klystron, for example, were to openly repudiate this spurious Bajoran claim to the territory in question, were to abandon the trade negotiations now, then I think the Cardassian government could guarantee very attractive terms indeed. Certainly more favorable than anything Bajor might offer."
"What an interesting notion," the ambassador said softly. "Tell me, Gul—hypothetically, of course—what sort of guarantee did you have in mind?"
In his private office, Quark moaned in excitement as he bent closely over his monitor. There was a sheen of sweat on his bulbous brow, and his eyes glittered with an avarice close to lust. To watch a deal like this being negotiated was better than any sex holo ever made!
To his customers, Quark guaranteed that his private holosex suites were free from any surveillance by station security. They could feel free to indulge their most depraved fantasies without fear of condemnation or arrest. Naturally, it was common for people to take advantage of this privacy for other purposes, such as sensitive discussions like this one.
And also naturally, Quark carefully recorded everything that went on in the suites, in case he might be able to turn the information to some personal advantage. Information, the Ferengi well knew, was often more valuable than gold—and easier to transport.
Now he watched the performance between the Cardassian and the Klystron with an acute appreciation for the nuances of the negotiating art: the lies and half-lies, the rare moments of candor, the careful use of the hypothetical. Treachery, self-interest and greed: it took a Ferengi to appreciate moments like this. And Quark had it all recorded.
Just in case.
But the matter under discussion was of immediate concern. To have the Cardassians back in charge of the station—where did Quark's interests lie? The Bajorans and the Federation or Gul Marak's government? Which side to choose?
He had prospered under the previous Cardassian rule. All this talk about enforcing order and stability applied to the subject Bajorans, not an independent businessman. Cardassians were enthusiastic customers for drinking and gambling, when their officers allowed it, as Gul Dukat had. Quark had a large, expensive inventory of holo programs that catered to their peculiar tastes in entertainment, and there was much less demand for it these days. In fact, Sisko had once threatened to confiscate and destroy some of the more extreme examples.
Quark bared his small, sharp teeth at the thought of the current station commander. Now, Gul Dukat, when he was in charge of DS-Nine, had been a different type. Dukat had always been willing to see Quark's point of view, when it was presented the right way—accompanied by appropriate amounts of gold-pressed latinum. Sisko, on the other hand—it still rankled, the way Sisko had used young Nog the way he had, threatening to keep the boy in detention unless his uncle cooperated. Yet it was true that business under the new administration hadn't been as bad as Quark had first expected.
Then there was the matter of the bombings. Politics didn't make for good business, and the Bajorans were political to a fault—to more than one fault. How could he turn a profit if the Bajoran terrorists were always going to be blowing up the Promenade, getting it shut down by security?
And thinking of security, there was the insufferable Constable Odo. A real thorn sticking in his side. It was true that Odo had also been in office under Gul Dukat, but he was even a worse nuisance these days, with Sisko's encouragement. And now working so closely with that Major Kira.
Quark's tongue flicked lasciviously against his lips as he thought of Kira. No one else seemed to appreciate the major's female attributes. But Gul Marak seemed to particularly dislike the Bajoran major. There might be an advantage there. Perhaps Gul Marak could be persuaded that Odo had been entirely too closely connected with Kira. With the Bajorans. Unreliable. Yes.
At the thought of a Cardassian-run station without Odo, Quark began to grin. He left his office and shouted for his nephew to take another bottle of Rigellian brandy, with his compliments, to that noble Cardassian commander, Gul Marak.