“Quark!” The DaiMon shouted. “Do your job, you ungrateful wretch, or you’ll be tossed out the airlock with that load of replicated greeworms you’ve been trying to feed us!”
One of the Ferengi shouted back to his DaiMon. The man, presumably Quark, carried one end of a long shipping container, assisted by a shorter Ferengi who grunted as the brigade came to a halt. “Those greeworms are not replicated!” Quark protested. “I spent a fortune on them, I’ll have you know!”
Another of the Ferengi spoke up. “I’ve had those greeworms, and they’re not only replicated, they’re awful! He’s been lying on his expense reports, DaiMon!”
“Why you—” Quark shouted, dropping his half of the shipping container to lunge for his crewmate’s excuse for a neck.
“Enough!” Thrax roared. “If you damage that equipment, I can guarantee that Gul Dukat will charge you double for it—and what you don’t have in currency, he’ll be happy to take out of your hides!” If there was one thing the security chief had learned during his years on Terok Nor, it was the effectiveness of making threats on the prefect’s behalf. Dukat had a reputation too, after all.
The two Ferengi immediately went back to work, but their argument continued, whispered now.
Gart began his pitch again, perhaps thinking that if he grinned wider, exposing more of his filed teeth, Thrax would believe him sincere—but behind him, the sniping Ferengi were back at it, their voices rising even louder than before.
“Quark! Kurga!” Gart turned and shouted. “I warned you!”
The smaller of the two Ferengi, the one with a mournful expression that appeared to be permanent, pointed to the other. “He is trying to cheat you, Gart! He overcharged you for that last run of synthale, and I have evidence that he has really and truly been trying to poison you! He wants to—”
“Stop it at once!” Thrax demanded, just before Quark made another clumsy attempt to swing at his crewmate. Thrax was not the sort of man to draw a weapon without worthy cause. He stepped closer to the line of squabbling aliens and reached out to grab one of the Ferengi by the ear, which caused the most horrible screeching noise Thrax thought he’d ever heard. The other men in the line promptly dropped their containers with a collective clatter and clapped their hands over their ears. Thrax recognized the efficacy of such a squeal in the realm of defense. For a people with hearing so much more sensitive than his own, the sound had to be excruciating. Indeed, despite his own rather mediocre hearing, Thrax’s head seemed to be splitting in two because of the horrid sound, and he quickly let go of the man’s ear. The screaming ceased, but the scuffle threatened to continue before the Ferengi named Quark dashed through the cargo bay and out into the corridor.
“Good riddance,” Gart snapped, and turned back to Thrax. “Now, about our negotiations—”
“Don’t press your luck,” Thrax said. “Just unload the cargo and get out of here. Unless you want my people to unload it for you.”
The threat—that he would have the Ferengi’s ship searched, undoubtedly uncovering vast quantities of stolen supplies or expensive contraband—did the trick.
“Of course, yes, it’s a pleasure,” Gart said meekly, and turned back to his crew, who had quickly and quietly resumed their work.
Thrax watched them carefully until the last container was unloaded, wondering if the fight was really a means to distract him while another of the Ferengi robbed the station blind. He’d better find this Quark right away and get him off the station as expediently as possible. The last thing Terok Nor needed was an unattended Ferengi; the Bajorans gave him enough trouble as it was.
Natima ran a finger over the edge of her glass. The bit of kanarshe’d already sipped had gone straight to her head. She would not have chosen kanarfor herself, but when she’d arrived, Russol had already put in the drink orders, leaving Natima to accept whatever was brought to her.
Natima liked the restaurant he’d chosen. It was dark and pretty and too expensive. She could remember the first time she had come here, to celebrate her apprenticeship with the Information Service. She’d had no family with which to come, and so she had come alone, to toast her own unlikely success.
Most people followed the career trajectory that had been laid out for them by their parents when they were children. Natima had been left to find her own path after being turned out by the orphanage where she’d grown up on Cardassia II. She had applied for the apprenticeship and gotten it, beating out several others with familial connections to the Information Service. It was the proudest and most exhilarating moment of her life, not likely ever to be replicated. It was the first time she’d felt herself to be a true member of the Union, self-sufficient and able to serve.
It was impossible not to remember that sensation as she sat here, across from Russol, sipping kanarlike any other Cardassian—but deep inside she felt different, and she would always feel different. It was a topic she would never be comfortable discussing with someone like Russol. Another orphan might understand, perhaps, but very few grew up to be productive members of society. Natima didn’t have much chance of speaking to another, at least not one from her own world. On Bajor, it had been a different story.
Natima brought herself back into the present, mentally filing away volatile topics for another time. “I don’t much care for kanar,” she said, being truthful, but also playfully irritable.
“I apologize, then,” Russol said, and in his earnest reply Natima saw that he had not asked her here in order to be coy. She frowned slightly into her drink. Of course he would have no romantic interest in her—no man ever seemed to. She supposed she scared them away, but she was too old and set in her ways to feel more than a moment’s regret. She’d been ignored by better.
“It’s not a problem,” she said. “It won’t hurt me to try something new.” She took another sip, no longer caring quite so much if she became a little inebriated.
“Miss Lang,” Russol began.
“Call me Natima,” she said, not so much to flirt with him, since he’d made it clear that wasn’t his purpose, but to eschew as much of the yoke of formality as possible. Natima found it tiresome after a while, trying to keep up appearances. It had never come naturally to her, as she’d never had anyone to teach her the nuances of appropriate social behavior from the time she was a child; it had all been learned by trial and error, with sometimes embarrassing results.
“Natima, it has come to my attention that you’re…not in full agreement with the direction the military government has begun to take in the past few decades.” He looked at her uneasily.
Natima narrowed her eyes, reflexively searching for traps. “Everyone has their own ideas about the way things ought to be run,” she said ambiguously, and took a larger sip of her drink.
“Yes, I suppose it’s true, though most decline to discuss it.”
“Certainly in a place as public as this one,” she said, lowering her voice slightly.
“So…you would be more comfortable if we discussed this topic elsewhere?”
Natima considered it. What was he asking her, exactly? Did Russol’s dissent go deeper than mere complaints coming off the front lines? She wasn’t sure how to respond, but some string of curiosity deep in her mind had been plucked, and she could not pretend she did not hear the humming.
“It…it depends,” she said, again ambiguous. What might she be getting herself into?
“Natima, I’ve done quite a bit of checking up on you, and I believe I can trust you,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I’ve reviewed the stories you’ve done in the past, and though it was often subtle, I’ve definitely detected a…tone from you, and from your stories. I feel as though a person like you…could be useful in what I am trying to do.”