freighter cook, driven from the beautiful swamps of Ferenginar by a ridiculous accusation that was, sadly, true. But he’d been listening, from the beginning, from his very first day boiling the morning snail juice for Gart’s idiot crew. Listening for that faint, come-hither breath of opportunity, seeking out the entrepreneurial brave—and now she had come panting after him like a two-strip dabo girl, and he had the lobes to take action.
He patted the vest pockets containing his remaining strips and slips, and settled down in a chair in his new quarters, his grin souring slightly. The Cardassian hadn’t gotten all of it, but the loss had hurt. And yet, what other recourse did he have? Where else could he possibly go? Dukat obviously didn’t want him here, but latinum bought welcome, he’d found. Even with Klingons, to some degree. It was too bad Dukat hadn’t wanted the perishables, but Quark already had an idea or two.
He’d known about the occupation, of course. No self-respecting businessman would travel the starry seas without knowing who had the power where. In the B’hava’el system, the Cardassians carried the big stick. They’d run over some backward agri planet to “borrow” most of their resources, to boost a sagging economy at home—not a bad business plan, considering the payoff, though not so hot for the Bajorans. He’d seen plenty of Cardassians, but until his little tour of his new home this morning, he’d never seen a Bajoran before, not up close. In some of those pale faces he’d read crazed desperation, barely concealed; in others, utter, total defeat.
He’d been sent by a gaunt-faced “merchant” to his newly assigned lodgings, to find not much at the far end of a bleak, curving corridor—a bunk, a table, basic replicator, outdated computer console—but it was comfortable enough for someone who’d just been ejected from a tramp freighter. Quark was in no position to complain—he hadn’t expected Risa.
He quickly set about contacting his family on Ferenginar to inform them that he was still alive, but of course his fool-headed mother was apparently too busy with some trivial female pursuit to answer a transmission from her beloved eldest son. He left her a message, and then one for his idiot brother Rom, and then he waited. There wasn’t much he could do now, not until he’d arranged for his funds to be transferred. He didn’t have a padd; he had virtually no assets besides his few crates of delectable odds and ends— milcake mix, sargam filets, caviar, pickled plomeek —and his brilliant business acumen. Which was awesome, of course, but it didn’t pay the bills, not yet. There were his personal effects—at least Gart had tossed out Quark’s bag along with the refrigerated, “poisoned” containers—but nothing he could consider much of an asset. At least not among Cardassians.
Except the disruptor, maybe . Quark looked over at his bag, considering. You never knew when you might need to defend yourself. Of course, on a place like this, a single disruptor pistol was brittle reassurance—especially since he had never actually fired the thing. In any case, he couldn’t imagine a need for it. He had been blessed with the gift of gab.
The little console in front of him chimed to indicate that one of his messages was being returned, and Quark fumbled around a bit with the alien keyboard before he managed to access the image of his mother, her wizened face showing deep concern. Quark was disgusted to see that Ishka was wearing some piece of fabric swathed around her neck.
“Moogie!” he cried out, embarrassed. “Take that thing off!”
His mother looked down, and then plucked at the scarf. “Sorry, son. I was just trying it on. I forgot it was even there.”
“Ugh.” There was nothing more terrible than seeing your own mother in clothing. It wasn’t so bad when other women did it—it was suggestive, of course, but suggestive wasn’t necessarily horrifying.
He patted the vest pockets containing his remaining strips and slips, and settled down in a chair in his new quarters, his grin souring slightly. The Cardassian hadn’t gotten all of it, but the loss had hurt. And yet, what other recourse did he have? Where else could he possibly go? Dukat obviously didn’t want him here, but latinum bought welcome, he’d found. Even with Klingons, to some degree. It was too bad Dukat hadn’t wanted the perishables, but Quark already had an idea or two.
He’d known about the occupation, of course. No self-respecting businessman would travel the starry seas without knowing who had the power where. In the B’hava’el system, the Cardassians carried the big stick. They’d run over some backward agri planet to “borrow” most of their resources, to boost a sagging economy at home—not a bad business plan, considering the payoff, though not so hot for the Bajorans. He’d seen plenty of Cardassians, but until his little tour of his new home this morning, he’d never seen a Bajoran before, not up close. In some of those pale faces he’d read crazed desperation, barely concealed; in others, utter, total defeat.
He’d been sent by a gaunt-faced “merchant” to his newly assigned lodgings, to find not much at the far end of a bleak, curving corridor—a bunk, a table, basic replicator, outdated computer console—but it was comfortable enough for someone who’d just been ejected from a tramp freighter. Quark was in no position to complain—he hadn’t expected Risa.
He quickly set about contacting his family on Ferenginar to inform them that he was still alive, but of course his fool-headed mother was apparently too busy with some trivial female pursuit to answer a transmission from her beloved eldest son. He left her a message, and then one for his idiot brother Rom, and then he waited. There wasn’t much he could do now, not until he’d arranged for his funds to be transferred. He didn’t have a padd; he had virtually no assets besides his few crates of delectable odds and ends— milcake mix, sargam filets, caviar, pickled plomeek —and his brilliant business acumen. Which was awesome, of course, but it didn’t pay the bills, not yet. There were his personal effects—at least Gart had tossed out Quark’s bag along with the refrigerated, “poisoned” containers—but nothing he could consider much of an asset. At least not among Cardassians.
Except the disruptor, maybe . Quark looked over at his bag, considering. You never knew when you might need to defend yourself. Of course, on a place like this, a single disruptor pistol was brittle reassurance—especially since he had never actually fired the thing. In any case, he couldn’t imagine a need for it. He had been blessed with the gift of gab.
The little console in front of him chimed to indicate that one of his messages was being returned, and Quark fumbled around a bit with the alien keyboard before he managed to access the image of his mother, her wizened face showing deep concern. Quark was disgusted to see that Ishka was wearing some piece of fabric swathed around her neck.
“Moogie!” he cried out, embarrassed. “Take that thing off!”
His mother looked down, and then plucked at the scarf. “Sorry, son. I was just trying it on. I forgot it was even there.”
“Ugh.” There was nothing more terrible than seeing your own mother in clothing. It wasn’t so bad when other women did it—it was suggestive, of course, but suggestive wasn’t necessarily horrifying.
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