Caveat Emptor Read online

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  #4: Interphase: Book 1 by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore

  #5: Interphase: Book 2 by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore

  #6: Cold Fusion by Keith R.A. DeCandido

  #7: Invincible: Book 1 by David Mack & Keith R.A. DeCandido

  #8: Invincible: Book 2 by David Mack & Keith R.A. DeCandido

  #9: The Riddled Post by Aaron Rosenberg

  #10: Gateways Epilogue: Here There Be Monsters by Keith R.A. DeCandido

  #11: Ambush by Dave Galanter & Greg Brodeur

  #12: Some Assembly Required by Scott Ciencin & Dan Jolley

  #13: No Surrender by Jeff Mariotte

  #14: Caveat Emptor by Ian Edginton & Mike Collins

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  Copyright © 2001 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

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  Forg held his breath and listened intently, straining to detect even the slightest sound.

  There was nothing.

  A trickle of cold sweat snaked its way down the back of his neck, quickly prompting him to bite his lip, stifling a sudden squeak of terror. Under normal circumstances, the halls of a Ferengi Merchantman positively buzzed with the chatter of conspiracies and intrigue and of deals being struck. But now there wasn’t even the reassuringly, sensual chink of gold-pressed latinum.

  It was … unnatural.

  Forg prided himself on having the kind of lobes that could detect the unique sound of a strip of latinum being dropped thirty meters away. In fact, during his apprenticeship back in the Commercial and Mercantile Institute of Ferenginar, he could correctly identify seventy-five different forms of currency just from the way they hit the ground. His father had been so impressed that he’d bought him an Institute Commendation, to be deducted against his future earnings, of course.

  Forg nibbled uncomfortably at his lip. The discomfort was nothing compared to the growing fear in his stomach. It was either that or the spore pie he’d eaten after he’d finished his shift six hours ago.

  Six hours, had it only been that long?

  He reached a junction and hesitated. Flattening himself against the wall, he peered tentatively around the corner. The corridor beyond was deserted. He allowed himself the luxury of exhaling. At the far end lay the escape pods. If he could just keep his nerve for a little while longer, he would be free of this nightmare. Tiptoeing as gingerly as he dared, he cast quick glances at the doorways on either side, expecting them to suddenly hiss open at any second and see one of them standing there.

  Forg froze. There was something on the floor just ahead. He recognized it as a strip of latinum. What’s more, it was still in its mint wraps. And it wasn’t alone. There were others, lots of them. So many, in fact, he could buy this ship a hundred times over and still have enough change to keep him hip-deep in Dabo girls for life. Forg felt the familiar tingling sensation of greed washing over him.

  He followed the glittering trail to the bank of escape pods. A green light winked on the control console above one of the hatches. A pod had been launched. Someone else had escaped.

  Down at his feet, a gray security crate lay on its side, spilling latinum. Like the rest they were all still in their wraps, as shiny and pristine as the day they were minted. He recognized the family crest stamped on the wraps. This wasn’t just anyone’s personal horde. It belonged to the ship’s owner, DaiMon Phug.

  Forg’s momentary glee soon faded as he wondered what it was that could force Phug to abandon his fortune barely a meter away from freedom? Whatever it was, it wasn’t there now and as such was Phug’s loss. Forg balanced his fear against his avarice and found they came out pretty even. He decided to go with the latter; after all wasn’t it the Sixty-Second Rule of Acquisition that stated, “The riskier the road, the greater the profit”?

  Besides, he had a plan.

  He popped the hatch of the nearest pod and began loading the latinum inside. Initially, he assured himself, he was only going to take the strips that were within arm’s length. There was no need to take foolish risks.

  But …

  To abandon those strips only a few steps away seemed foolish, not to mention wasteful. So he took the steps, then some more, and even more still, each time scuttling back to hurl another armful into the pod, mentally tallying up the worth of each load.

  A matching pair of latinum lobe buffers and fang sharpeners. A complete, lifetime’s wardrobe of the finest Tholian silk (including underwear). An estate in the Colloid marshes. A brand new, not reconditioned, trading schooner with its own captain’s yacht. A moon—maybe two.

  Plus, of course, a substantial donation to the Prophets of the Divine Treasury—ensuring his name was recited in the Annual Tally so that he might be looked upon favorably by the Blessed Exchequer and the Celestial Auctioneers. Forg wasn’t usually so diligent in his spiritual devotions, but it never hurt to hedge your bets.

  Somewhere among his fantasies of prospective underwear, real estate, and a comfortable afterlife, Forg failed to hear the hiss that he’d so previously dreaded. However, his terror returned with a vengeance as he waddled down the corridor laden with booty only to be confronted by a short, dark stranger. The tumbling latinum bruised two of his toes but fear had stolen Forg’s voice.

  The figure was dressed in a floor-length hooded robe improvised from black cargo sheeting. In his hand, a staff as tall as the figure himself was cut from a section of conduit piping. The figure slowly lifted his head to face him. Forg’s eyes widened in recognition.

  “Zin?” he finally croaked, incredulous.

  No, not anymore, Forg realized. He began to slowly back away, managing only a few agonizing steps before the ominous rustle of more robes behind him rooted him to the spot.

  “Please,” he whispered, “don’t.” But his plea fell on large, deaf ears.

  He saw Zin’s dead eyes.

  He saw the staff.

  After that … nothing.

  The tiny Klingon paced furiously along the top of Captain David Gold’s desk, neatly skirting a cinnamon bagel before resting his spiked boot defiantly on the lip of a china saucer.

  “No, no, no!” he snarled. The frustration was evident in his contorted little face. “Your enunciation is a disgrace. Do you even know what a syllable is?”

  Gold set down his coffee cup. He contemplated replying but thought better of it. The small holographic Klingon was clearly on a roll.

  “And as for your pronunciation! Pfagh!” he spat with undisguised venom. “You sound like a too
thless old man too long in his cups!”

  “I understand,” Gold replied with bemusement bordering on irritation.

  “In Klingon!” bellowed the warrior, who looked to Gold as if he were about to have an aneurysm any second.

  “jIyajchu,” Gold answered, attempting to correctly pronounce the uniquely hacking, phlegmy sound that punctuated most Klingon grammar. The warrior gave a sharp snort of approval just as the door chime to Gold’s quarters sounded.

  “Saved by the bell,” he muttered. “Come.”

  Commander Sonya Gomez, the da Vinci’s first officer entered, breaking into a broad beaming grin when she saw the miniature Klingon glowering up at Gold.

  “Good morning, Captain. I hope that I’m not interrupting?”

  “Interrupt away,” he said, glancing over at the small, antique silver traveling clock. A captain’s time-piece from the Napoleonic Wars, it had been a gift from his wife Rachel on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. “I’m just about finished here.”

  “But I am not!” the warrior bellowed. “We are done when I say so!”

  “Like hell. End program.”

  The fuming Klingon dissipated into a swirling cluster of light particles, returning to the small oval holo-emitter on Gold’s desk. A single red light winked like an angry red eye, signifying the program had been shut down.

  “Now if I could have done that to certain teachers at the Academy, I’d have been the most popular person in my year.”

  Gomez smiled. “Every student’s fantasy. I didn’t know you were interested in learning Klingon.”

  “I’m not—exactly.” Gold indicated the holo-emitter. “This was a gift from my granddaughter, Esther—you remember, Daniel’s youngest? Her new beau is a Klingon politician, and she insists I bone up on the rudiments of the language so I can address him correctly. I think she’s reprogrammed it herself to reflect a more realistic Klingon temperament. She’s a tinkerer. Wants to be an engineer … this week at least. She sent it to me a month ago, but I didn’t really start using it until—” He hesitated.

  “Kursican?” Gomez prompted.

  Gold heaved a heavy sigh. “Let’s just say that after what happened with Gus Bradford on Kursican, I’ve become a lot more conscious of family.” Brightening a bit, he went on: “In any event, we’re all supposed to be having dinner on my next shore leave. Poor Rachel’s going frantic trying to find a recipe for a kosher blood pie.”

  Remembering the background of one of her old crewmates on the Enterprise, Gomez said, “Tell her to get in touch with Sergey and Helena Rozhenko. Sergey is retired Starfleet—I think they live in Minsk. They raised Ambassador Worf.”

  Standing up, Gold smiled. “Thank you, Commander, I’ll be sure to recommend that.” He offered Gomez the door. “Shall we?”

  They walked in the direction of the bridge, Gomez taking her place beside her captain, quickening her pace to match his.

  Gold enjoyed these brief moments of informality. There was no real reason for Gomez to escort her CO to the bridge at the start of their duty shift save for they fact they both enjoyed the small talk and each other’s company. It was difficult working away from family for such long stretches. Unlike other starships, the size of the da Vinci and the often hazardous nature of its mission meant she was not designed or equipped to carry both crew and their families. Gold had been concerned that Gomez would curtail the practice once she and Kieran Duffy, the da Vinci’s second officer, had rekindled their romance, but that had not been the case.

  “Dating a Klingon,” Gomez said with a small smile. “That can be tricky.”

  “I know,” said Gold. “But Esther’s no slouch. Apparently they’ve been inseparable since they met—you couldn’t stick a pin between them. I think it’s a case of an irresistible force meeting an immovable object.”

  “Does the immovable object have a name?” enquired Gomez.

  “Khor, son of Lantar—of the House of Gorkon.”

  “Wow,” Gomez said. Gorkon was the chancellor who brokered the first of the Khitomer Accords with the Federation after the destruction of Praxis eighty years earlier.

  “He was one of the youngest captains to command a fleet during the war. Last month, he was appointed to Chancellor Martok’s staff.”

  “A high flyer in every sense of the word. How did Esther snag him?” asked Gomez. “Not that she isn’t capable,” she added quickly.

  Gold sighed in that indulgent, paternal way that Esther always made fun of.

  “She got into an argument with him in a bar.”

  Gomez winced. “A bar?”

  Gold nodded. “I know. Don’t ask. I didn’t. It’s easier on the nerves that way. Since finishing college, she’s been backpacking around the galaxy while she tries to figure out what she wants to do with her life. Seems she crossed paths with Khor and his colleagues while they were out on a binge. They saw her and started going on about human history. We had no truly great deeds or battles worthy of song and saga, the usual nonsense.” Gold shook his head, smiling. “So my Esther—no taller than a Ferengi, but with a temper that would give a Gorn a hard time—calls them out and informs them in language that would make a Nausicaan blush that they are mistaken.”

  “So what happened?” asked Gomez as they entered the turbolift. “Bridge,” she added, and the turbolift sped upward.

  Gold paused, his face suddenly solemn. “She told them, in great detail, about the Romans’ siege of Masada, of the thousand Jewish partisans—men, women, and children—who sacrificed themselves rather than return to a life of slavery and oppression.” He brightened. “She must’ve made an impression, because Khor apologized and escorted her to where she was staying. The next day he invited her to an opera recital and they haven’t been apart since.”

  The doors to the turbolift opened and the captain and first officer entered the bridge. Lieutenant McAllan half turned and said, “Captain on the bridge.”

  “Knock it off, McAllan,” Gold said. He generally ran a comparatively informal bridge, and never insisted on the particular protocol that required bellowing his entrance like some kind of—well, Roman emperor. But McAllan, the da Vinci’s tactical officer, kept insisting, no doubt encouraged by the ship’s chief of security, the ever-spit-and-polish Domenica Corsi. “Status?”

  “We were just going to call you, actually, sir,” McAllan said. “We’re picking up an automated transmission from an unidentified vessel sixty thousand kilometers off our starboard bow. Based on the initial readings, it’s an escape pod.”

  From the ops console in front of the captain’s chair, Lieutenant Ina Mar said, “Captain, they’ve picked up on our scans. They’re firing maneuvering thrusters—” her eyes widened “—in the opposite direction.”

  “They’re trying to outrun us?” Gomez asked.

  “This I have to see,” added Gold. “On screen.”

  The vast panoramic expanse of a starfield on the forward viewer was replaced by a less panoramic expanse, with something that looked like a pale orange beetle at its center. It was a ship, oval in shape, covered in overlapping bands of riveted metal. Its underside was flat and smooth with a pair of forward facing wings sweeping from halfway along its sides, tapering down to narrow points at the front. At the rear, a cluster of exhaust vents glowed white as they attempted to propel the tiny craft away from the da Vinci.

  “Getting its registry now, sir,” McAllan said. “It’s a Ferengi lifepod.”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Gold. “Hail them, McAllan. Let’s see what they’re up to.”

  “Yes, sir.” McAllan opened a channel. “This is the U.S.S. da Vinci to Ferengi pod, please acknowledge.”

  There was no reply.

  Gold nodded at the screen. “Keep knocking, McAllan.”

  “I repeat, this is the U.S.S. da Vinci to Ferengi pod, please respo—”

  “Go away!” The reply was on audio only but there was no mistaking the vehemence in the tone.

  “I’d say that qualifies as
a response,” Gold muttered.

  Gomez moved to the tactical station next to McAllan, but spoke to the ship’s conn officer. “Ensign Wong, get us into tractor-beam range.”

  “Aye, sir,” replied Songmin Wong.

  “Ferengi pod,” Gomez said, “please disengage your thrusters and prepare to be taken under tow.”

  “Are you deaf, human? I am perfectly fine and in no need of assistance. Now withdraw immediately!”

  Ina turned around. “Sensors indicate no Class-M planets nor other ships within the pod’s range. If we don’t bring him in, no one will.”

  Gomez nodded. “Ferengi pod, under the articles of interstellar law, we are legally obliged to render aid and assistance to any ship in distress. By its very nature, your escape pod qualifies as just that. Furthermore, we are your only chance for rescue.”

  “You cannot …” was the spluttering reply.

  Gomez motioned to McAllan to cut the link.

  “In tractor-beam range now,” Wong reported.

  “Reel him in, Mr. McAllan,” she said.

  Gold nodded approvingly, then tapped his combadge. “Transporter room. Feliciano, lock onto the pilot of that pod and beam him directly to sickbay on my mark.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gomez said, “With your permission, sir, I’ll greet our guest.”

  “Granted. Bridge to sickbay—Dr. Lense, prepare to accept an agitated, possibly disturbed Ferengi patient.”

  “We’ll be waiting,” said the ship’s chief medical officer.

  As the turbolift swallowed Gomez back up, Gold made one final call, to the ship’s second officer. “Duffy, as soon as that pod’s secure in the hangar, go over it with a fine-tooth comb.”

  “On my way, sir.”

  “EEEEEEE!!!”

  The Ferengi’s continued squealing set Dr. Elizabeth Lense’s teeth on edge and shredded what remained of her patience. She was all for pastoral care, but right now all she wanted to do was stuff a sock in her whining patient’s mouth.

  The Ferengi was dressed head to foot in black and purple velvet. The high collar and cuffs of his tailcoat were trimmed with elegant silver embroidery, the buttonholes and elaborate detailing picked out in gold thread. He also hadn’t stopped screaming since Chief Feliciano’s transporter beam deposited him on a biobed.