The Devil's Heart - Carmen Carter [7]
“Well, Number One,” said Picard. “It seems this is not a routine mission after all.”
CHAPTER 2
The United Federation of Planets was founded on a tenet of inclusion. Thus, as Starfleet charted and explored ever greater tracts of space, new worlds and their civilizations were eagerly drawn into the loose web of interstellar government. As in any rapidly growing organization, however, the Federation’s reach occasionally exceeded its grasp.
Inevitably, the grip of central authority weakened as it stretched out to the most recent annexations along an ever-expanding frontier.
Starbase 193 was held very lightly indeed.
From a distance, the station looked like a gleaming metal teardrop suspended in space. Its recent construction guaranteed a level of technology far superior to older, more established structures; and the sophisticated docking and maintenance services it offered were crucial for supporting commercial traffic through the sector.
However, aside from the base itself, Federation presence in the sector consisted of one career officer.
Commander Miyakawa was forced to work without one of the standard benefits of a bureaucratic posting closer to home a well-regulated support staff.
Most of the day-to-day operations of the base were dependent on a shifting pool of labor settlers who had run out of money before reaching their chosen paradise, technicians who had overslept a shore leave and lost their berth on a freighter, or confirmed drifters who would leave when the tendrils of civilization crept too close for comfort.
The permanent inhabitants of Starbase 193 were employed in business ventures of their own.
DaiMon Maarc sauntered into the murky recesses of the Due or Die with an air of confidence that marked him as an especially prosperous merchant among a race of merchants.
His tailored gray business suit was cut to flatter his form; its sleeves were embellished with bands of jewel-encrusted cloth; and the broad, soft collar was studded with gold pins. For a Ferengi, it was a discreet display of solid financial success.
A DaiMon of means would usually avoid a bar as dingy and cramped as the Due or Die.
Beauty was not the only quality that was missing from the establishment; cleanliness and comfort were also in short supply. However, Maarc had little interest in the quality of the decor. Tourists and the credit-poor rabble of the station might come here for cheap drinks, but he had come to see Camenae.
As he threaded his way between wobbling tables, the Ferengi calculated his current cash reserve for speculative ventures. Any purchase he made today would be expensive.
Most of Camenae’s clients came to the bar with a specific question; if they could meet her price, most walked back out with an answer.
Sometimes they paid with a handful of round tokens, the only currency that had any meaning inside the bar, but it was common knowledge that Camenae preferred an exchange for new information to tuck away in anticipation of future requests.
Besides forming the basis for her business, facts were also her private passion, and matching the right fact with the right customer brought Camenae a deep sense of personal satisfaction. So, on occasion she informed certain select individuals that she possessed an answer to a question they hadn’t thought to ask yet.
Just such a notification had reached the Ferengi a few minutes earlier, and he had not wasted any time in responding to the call. Through experience, DaiMon Maarc had learned that Camenae did not let her goods grow stale. He would have been a much richer merchant today if he had paid more attention the first time she offered him a question.
“I’m expected,” boasted Maarc to the Norsican who blocked his way. The guard nodded and stepped back to allow the Ferengi to pass through another door into an even darker room.
Maarc’s steps faltered as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, but there were no unseen