Quark grinned, thinking of the possibilities. He’d left home a lowly 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assigned lodgings, to find not much at the far end of a bleak, curving corridor—a bunk, a table, basic replicator, outdated computer console—but it was comfortable enough for someone who’d just been ejected from a tramp freighter.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— milcakemix, sargamfilets, 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. Quark remembered when Gera had put on his jacket, once, after he’d taken it off—a bold gesture, one that should have been upsetting, but she’d looked oddly cute in it…He promptly buried the thought. The sub-nagus’s tart of a sister was why he’d had to leave home in the first place.

Ishka got right to business. “Quark, what has gotten into you? A Cardassian station! Haven’t I told you about those people? They have no interest in profit at all—they’re almost as bad as the Klingons, but with less scruple! All they want to do is plunder, and then plunder some more. No head for business!”

“That’s enough!” Quark shouted. His mother had such nerve, trying to tell him—the eldest male!—what to do. “All I need to hear from you is that you’ve made sure Rom has transferred all my accounts over to the Bank of Bolias.”

“Son, I’m not so sure your brother can handle your request. Maybe it would be better if I just—”

“Rom has to do it,” Quark said firmly. Of course his mother knew that Rom was an idiot, as stupid as any Klingon when it came to matters of money, but there was no one else. Cousin Gaila would have skimmed, and there were no other close male relatives to whom he could turn.

“For Exchequer’s sake, Quark, it’s a simple request. I don’t approve of what you’re doing, but if I can just put in the call to the bank for you—”

“Put in the call?” Quark said, a little sick at the thought of it. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

His mother pursed her lips beneath the hook of her nose. “Of course I am,”she finally said. “I’ll contact your brother right away. And don’t worry, I’ll see to it that he doesn’t miss anything.”

“Good,” Quark said. “I’ve got big plans for this station. I’m going to be rich in no time.”

His mother continued to look fretful. “But…son…Cardassians? There’s a war going on there, isn’t there?”

“Not exactly,” Quark told her. “But even if there was, don’t forget the Thirty-fourth Rule of Acquisition.” War is good for business. That’d shut her up.

“Don’t forget the Thirty-fifth Rule, either,”Ishka reminded him. “‘ Peace is good for business.’ Couldn’t you come back to peaceful Ferenginar, carry out your plans close to home?”

“Moogie, I’ve got cases and cases of unreplicated food, and I’m on a station full of starving Bajorans.”

“Quark, don’t get mixed up in the local politics! Aligning yourself with the Bajorans—”

“Who said anything about alignment? It’s supply and demand. You should see some of these people, Moogie. They’re ugly enough as it is—tall, straight teeth—”

“And what makes you think they have any money?”

“Some of them do. They’re bound to! They have vendors on this station, and I’ve seen Bajorans patronizing them. But you can’t eat money, can you? From what I’ve heard, there are food shortages on their planet, and they don’t seem to have a pair of decent shoes between a dozen of them, let alone a replicator. If they have the money, they’ll pay. Believe me, Moogie.”

“The Cardassians won’t stand for it. You’ll be killed.”

“The Cardassians don’t have to know,” he said, lowering his voice from force of habit, though he’d already checked and double-checked the channel’s security. The Cardassians were good, but not that good. “Besides, I’ve got an idea for a legitimate venture. You wouldn’t believe what passes for leisure here. These soldiers—they’ve got nowhere to unwind! I’m going to change that, though.”

His mother frowned, her eyes moist. “So, there’s no way I can convince you to come home?”

Quark shook his head firmly. “I figure it’ll be at least another decade before it’s safe to show my face again. The sub-nagus isn’t likely to have forgotten me.”

“Maybe if you’d just married his sister,”Ishka said sadly.

“She was engaged,” Quark reminded her. “Anyway, I’ll never get married. I’m not like Rom.”