Currency That Cannot Be Bought

[Sorehl 0]

The following is a joint Drankum/Sorehl log, taking place off-station...

 

In humon terms, it had been eleven years, two months, five days, twenty-three hours and some odd minutes. Then again, who was counting? Now, all that time later, he stood looking at a familiar site in a place he had not actually visited in half a decade. The blinking and flashing illumations from the sign he had cared about so much had not changed, many of the vendors nearby were still the same. The carpet of the Promenade had clearly been replaced, obviously done by some humon engineer without any idea for quality. The bulkheads showed no signs of age, no hint of the horrors they might be able to speak of if such was possible. The windows still displayed the amazing view they always had. Then, there was the silence.

 

His arrival had taken place at an extremely odd hour. The Command Center had actually scrambled when the hail had come in. Even with the nearby trade route, traffic simply didn't happen at 0230 CTS. The Promenade was, by all accounts, empty. A few night shift workers quickly went thru the tasks of cleaning and there was a chance an engineering crew might be roaming near the doors of an apprently malfunctioning turbolift, but other than that no real movement could be detected.

 

He had stood leaning against the outside bar for several minutes before finally entering the establishment. What he wanted was exactly where it should have been, a testiment to the quality staff that Patty Santi had put into place. At that moment, a brief thought entered his head about how comical the unverse actually was. Who would have thought that what once was then, now and would become could be so... painful.

 

The departure from Aegis had been blunt and unannounced, the destination unknown to all but a select few. His arrival home and subsequent meetings had gone almost as planned. The decisions had been made, the course of action set into motion weeks before finalized. Surprisingly, the only odd revelation dealt with the Klingon Empire. At the end of the meeting, the timeline he was required to follow gave a giant gap. He had decided...no...that was wrong. As difficult and impossible as it was for him to admit, he had not decided to visit this place but instead had been drawn. A real chance existed that it might be the last visit he would be able to make... the last time to... well, that was the question, wasn't it?

 

When he sat down, the table was set for two. A tall bottle filled with purple liquid sat across another filled with green hued contents and circular in shape. Two glasses sat, one in front him and one at the chair to his left. The only thing missing was his guest... who he knew would eventually find him.

 

* * * * *

 

The runabout glided past a starship under repair and eased into a shuttlebay towards the top of the mushroom-shaped station. Starbase 405 was in the night phase of its orbit, with the planet below outlined by a slowly waxing blue crescent.

 

The tireless commanding officer had greeted him by subspace, then cleared his arrival. Within moments, he had confirmed the presence of whom he sought, then offered his present location. Disembarking from the runabout, a mere fifteen paces took him to the turbolift in Shuttlebay One, which whisked him to the interior of the primary module, then up seven decks to the lowest level of the Promenade.

 

Although darkened, the Promenade bore a familiar air. He had often paced along the rounded corridor of its outer path. The doors ahead were among the most familiar and unchanged, gliding open at his approach.

 

* * * * *

 

Drankum looked up as the electronic motors engaged and the doors opened. Standing, a faint smile came across his face and a motion to the green bottle, "Unless your tastes have changed... I do believe this is the best year I have in stock." Still in the doorway, Sorehl raised an eyebrow. "Vulcan port," he identified from a distance. He unfastened the adhesion plate on his cloak and took it off with a flourish, draping it over one arm.

 

"2313," the Ferengi added, motioning him toward the empty chair with his cane.

 

The Vulcan closed the distance to the table. "I don't know which I find more remarkable – your recollection of obscure vintages or your ability to predict my arrival so exactly." He touched his fingers to the glass – it had warmed to the optimum temperature.

 

The elder Ferengi would normally had laughed at the comment, but instead lowered himself into the chair and leaned back, reviewing the Vulcan closely. Before waiting for further discussion, he poured himself a drink, casually avoiding eye contact with the taller Vulcanoid. "For the record, no vintage is obscure... one must simply know where to look." He paused, took a giant sip of the purple colored liquid, and continued, "Almost like politics..." Before he could elaborate on that thought, he shifted in his seat again. "Besides, if there is one thing I have learned in my time here, it's that you always have a knack for showing up at just the right moment," the Ferengi said matter-of-factly. "And unlike the other unprofitable fools in this quadrant, you're the one person I trust to sit down for a drink with right now."

 

The former captain lowered himself into the vacant chair. "You're aware, of course, that I avoid intoxicants as a rule," Sorehl noted. Nevertheless, he slid the glass toward his edge of the table and lifted it, taking in the scent. "But I shall make an exception in this instance." He took a respectable sip, nodding as a compliment.

 

Drankum recalled the one occasion he had seen the Vulcan imbibe – a toast in this very room, at the end of the Dominion War. But his own mood was too dark to acknowledge this latest gesture. He rolled the glass in his fingertips. "I knew they would send you," he revealed, a sudden edge to his voice.

 

Sorehl took the glass from his lips. "No one sent me," he countered. "You know very well you invited me to find you, Ambassador."

 

"What a conceit," Drankum scoffed loudly, nearly spilling his drink. "You're growing delusional in your old age, my Vulcan friend."

 

"And yet you included me on the distribution of your response to the treaty addendum," the former captain noted.

 

The cane fidgeted on his lap, but there was no response.

 

"And you purposely avoided my attempts at subspace communication."

 

"Did you call?" Drankum asked, failing to contain the sarcasm. "My assistant must not have routed your messages."

 

Sorehl set the small glass down, glancing over to the Canar Trade Mission office adjoining the bar. Its doors were barred by an officious looking lock and seal, below a conspicuous FCA closure notice. "Why are you here, Ambassador?"

 

Drankum rolled the cane across his legs. "There are days, Captain Ears, that I miss being... here, the way things used to be. Dealing with Ambassador Briel's unprofitable nagging on the surface or the years of debate to create the Ferengi Trade Route thru this sector. Compared to what has come since, it almost seems...," he hesitated for a moment, "to have been a more profitable time."

 

Sorehl recognized the evasion, or at least the delay of nostalgia. The latter was one of his own emotional failings, but this was not time to indulge it. "Clearly, your government has reservations about the relocation of Aegis," he pressed on, "but they've expressed nothing specific. There are rumors of massive financial shifts, enough to corner a market, perhaps even enough to destablize a region. What is going on?"

 

The Ferengi forced a smirk, "You know, the negotiations that allowed that floating space palace to be put up over the Cardassians were almost worse than the war itself. The sad part was, your humon Federation was the focus of most of the concerns." He took a giant drink from his glass, literally causing three-quarters of it to vanish into his mouth before pouring himself another. After a rather large swallow, he looked at Sorehl directly, "Odd how I defended the humons, said to the others they were wrong! It wouldn't be that way! This time things would be different!" He continued to stare at the Vulcan but almost look past him, almost as if he wasn't sitting in the opposite chair.

 

"I trusted them, Sorehl," he muttered with anger reverberating in his words. It was only the fifth time Drankum had ever refered to his counterpart by name in all the years they had known each other. "I actually believed the humons. I stood up for them when their own unprofitable excuse for a lifeform Ambassador sat at the table with a piece of latinum lodged in his brain." There was another pause, then in a voice that almost projected sorrow, "And this is how they repay it... repay the Ferengi... repay me."

 

The former captain tilted his head, listening. After a lapse of silence, he considered his response.

 

"Drankum," he began slowly. There were no titles now. "I will be the first to admit I have underestimated the symbolic impact of the Ferengi Alliance's commercial and economic investments. I am probably… ill-equiped to understand such motivations. But this doesn't excuse my dismissal of them, even without intention." As he said it, the Vulcan sensed there might yet be other motivations, some deeper, some personal.

 

Drankum resumed eye contact with Sorehl, "You do realize, Captain Ears, you are one of the last ones left in this unprofitable galaxy I actually trust, don't you?"

 

"And you have my respect," the Vulcan answered, "a currency that cannot easily be bought."

 

A wistful look returned to the Ferengi's features. "All the others are gone. Spawn, Muldoon, the Bulloc and his party, the Great Depository...no one to remember how we pulled together to survive that wicked Swarm." He patted one leg in remembrance. "I find myself alone these days, a child with latinum in his pocket but no where to spend it. Now I am forced to...," there was a pause again. Drankum shifted in his seat, leaning forward, "Do me a favor...don't let them destroy any more of my reputation. Profits I have, latinum I have, power I can buy...but regardless of what is coming, do not let the humons forget all I did before."

 

Sorehl slid the glass away from him. "I am led to believe I bear some personal responsibility for this escalation of tension." And then, he fell back to the teachings of Surak. "What would you have me do?" he implored.

 

As if not hearing the question, Drankum resumed looking past the Vulcan. "They caused this," he insisted, gesturing outward with his chin. "They set in motion the entire mess. How unprofitable am I that this will cause me to become the very thing I plundered to prevent," he said softly. "There is a humon saying, a Greece tragedy. And I have walked into one."

 

Suddenly, he was on his feet.

 

Sorehl stood at once. "Drankum, there is no need…"

 

"No," the Ferengi said waving him off, "the course has been set and cannot be changed." With a hurried stride, he stabbed the cane in front of himself and rushed to the entrance of the bar. Halfway out, he paused again and looked back at the Vulcan. "Farewell my profitable friend... I hope the future is more generous to you than it will be to me, " he said with the faintest glimmer of sorrow in his voice. Then, the Ferengi turned and was gone.

 

Sorehl made no move to stop him, knowing such a vain action would only aggravate a tense situation. There was no mistaking the warning. But what was coming?

Edited August 20, 2008 by Sorehl