Payment
By Laura Schiller
Based on Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Copyright: Paramount
Rom paced back and forth beside the airlock. Passengers bustled past him in twos and threes, lugging suitcases, leading children by the hand, many chattering at the tops of their voices, some quiet and pale with nerves.
"Careful now!" said Rom, herding them in a few at a time. "Please don't rush!"
He stood on tiptoe and craned his neck to peer past a group of Human Starfleet officers. He pulled out his chronometer. Five minutes to departure.
Where was Quark? Selling the seats had been his bright idea.
The chef who ran the Klingon restaurant on the promenade barreled through, knocking Rom against the wall like a rag doll. He picked himself up, cursing under his breath.
Four minutes and thirty seconds to docking. What in Eternal Destitution could be taking his big brother so long?
Stuffing a suitcase with more latinum than he could carry, most likely. Rom squeezed the straps of his backpack, which contained all the savings his pitiful salary could afford, and ground his teeth.
He spun on his heel and was just about to enter the airlock corridor, when a voice he would recognize among millions made him stop.
"Wait!"
Leeta came running down the hall faster than he'd ever seen her move, ungainly in her high heels, the click-clack of them echoing across the floor.
"Hey, Rom," she said, reeling to a stop. "Any seats left?"
Rom froze as he looked up at her. Her auburn hair, the color of Terran maple leaves in Quark's holosuites, fell in disarray over her white forehead. She wore Her leather bag was so old that the strap was wearing through, and she had to tuck it under one arm. Her mascara was smeared, her dark eyes wild with impatience.
She was beautiful. And she was asking for the impossible.
"But – but you're Bajoran," he sputtered. "Isn't it your government that's taking over the station?"
She shook her head. "You know if Starfleet leaves, it's only a matter of time before the spoonheads come back. I was here when this was Terok Nor. I won't go through that again."
"You're right," said Rom, wholeheartedly.
He remembered how the Cardassians had treated Bajoran women during the Occupation. It was eight years ago; Leeta must have been a teenager, almost a child. It didn't bear thinking about.
"So how much?"
"Huh? Oh!" She was negotiating. He drew himself up and tried to imitate his brother's business manner, miserably aware of how he fell short. "How much have you got? Name your price."
"I'm broke," she shot back, showing him the empty front pocket of her bag. "Payday was supposed to be tomorrow."
Then, to his utter shock, she leaned forward and took his left lobe between her fingers. She smiled at him, brighter than latinum, and whispered: "Come find me in private once we're planetside. Consider it payment in kind."
She smelled like flowers.
Her hand was so soft.
Normally, even the suggestion of oo-mox was enough to drive any and all thoughts out of Rom's head. Right now, however, he was conscious of at least three.
One – Blessed Exchequer, that feels good.
Two – Better than Dora.
Three – Something's wrong.
Sex was a commodity he had sworn never to deal in again. The last time he'd bought the company of a female, she'd taken everything he owned, including his heart.
He took a closer look at Leeta's face. A chill crept down his spine as he recognized that brilliant smile of hers. It was the same one he had seen her give to countless customers at the dabo table. Including the ones who cursed her when they blamed her for their losing streaks, or grabbed her hard enough to bruise, or let their hands go where they shouldn't go in public.
Leeta never stopped smiling. She was a dabo girl. It was part of her job.
He knew it was wrong, and downright sacrilegious, for a Ferengi … but the idea of being one of those customers made his skin crawl.
"No!" he said, louder than he meant to.
She let go of his ear as if it had burned her.
"Oh, Rom, I'm so sorry!" She backed away, gripping her bag with one hand, holding the other up in apology. "I didn't mean to – I thought you - "
There was a look on her face he couldn't even begin to understand, except that it was unhappy. He'd made her unhappy.
Desperate to stop that look, to reassure her somehow, to get the whole situation back to normal, he said the first thing that popped into his head.
"I'll take … that!" He pointed to the necklace of crystals sparkling around her throat.
"This?" She hooked one finger around the necklace, squinted down at it, and laughed. "Honey, these are fake."
"They are? Uh, I mean, of course they are!" He put on what he hoped was a knowing grin, and tapped the side of his nose with one finger. "But not everyone will know that."
She gave him another unreadable look, a long one this time, until the eye contact began to make him dizzy.
"You're not like any Ferengi I've ever met," she finally said. "Or any male, for that matter."
"I know." He sighed. "I'm a disgrace."
Her laugh softened into a smile, less bright than the one she had given him earlier, but genuine. He knew it by the crinkles around her eyes.
She unfastened her necklace and pressed it into his hand. The metal was warm from lying against her skin. He tucked it into the side pocket of his shirt, right where he carried his wallet. The lucky side.
"C'mon," she said.
She took his free hand and tugged him down the airlock corridor.
He darted one last look over his shoulder. Quark was nowhere to be found. According to his timepiece, there was just one minute left until the runabout took off.
Quark was smart. No one knew that better than the little brother he'd been exploiting all these years. He'd survive, no problem.
Rom just prayed to the Blessed Exchequer that he'd never find out, because he didn't know which would infuriate Quark the most – a dabo girl taking his seat, or the fact that Rom had given it away.