Star Trek: Phoenix-X
"Homespun Remake, Part II"
The Prometheus-class U.S.S. Phoenix-X craned precariously in orbit of the non-aligned planet of Flortarious III. The Ferengi BOB transported to the surface and entered a dreary, on-purpose Flortarian dive bar.
"What'll it be, Mac?" harumphed bartender Ruvio as he handed a drink to another Flortarian. "By the way, a hard 'Mac' is a bartender term of endearment."
BOB nodded as he leaned against the serving table. "As Ferengi, we all dabble in Quark'enings, regularly, in an effort to perpetuate stereotypes that may or may not be to our monetary advantage."
"Wait a minute. Are you the BOB? The rootinest, tootinest, fastest latinum earner in the West?" Then, digressing, "West, in terms of the galactic map if you oriented it in a way that the Gamma and Delta Quadrants populated the top half."
The accused man kept still as he was handed a complementary Aldorian ale. "The speed and growth rate of that Ferengi's earnings out-tracked the Grand Nagus himself. But not his wealth. Any loab-grower worth his brown money sacks knows that would mean certain death."
"A death that any big-eared moron would be honoured to endure given the mathematical impossibility of a fortune dwarfing that of our great overseer," came the sly remark from another Ferengi, entering the bar in a fancy Ferengi suit.
BOB did a double-take. "GuiMon Zonk?? You’re the fleet commander for this sector!"
"That's right. And, if you recall, you were allowed to get away with abandoning your money-hoarding in an effort by us for you to realize it was all a foolish Tykon's Rift-y dream sequence to begin with."
The down-and-outer gulped his ale. "And I would've gotten away with it too if it weren't for you meddling Ferengi. Tricking me into coming here for a Starfleet recommendation is the exact reason I left. As in, the Alliance's preposition for money-grubbing is perpetually self-destructive."
"Hey! We like other things too. Misogyny, for one," countered Zonk. "Either way, we know, deep down, you still love making money, despite your overtly non-Ferengi professionalism on the Phoenix-X making the opposite clear. In fact, the Alliance is willing to forego all your military fees for your reinstatement and a possible exchange officer placement in Starfleet."
BOB put his drink down. "Are you telling me that the Alliance is conceding to the value of scientific exploration?"
"Well, it also doesn't hurt to have a man on the inside," levelled Zonk. "But, yes. You wore us down with your disgusting, overt displays of money-disregarding. At least now we can explain to all Ferengi why you're doing whatever it is you're doing."
Ruvio watched with wide eyes as BOB slowly stepped back from the bar. BOB took a breath before speaking again. "Keep your commission, GuiMon. The Alliance is like a Ferengi in a gorilla suit at a clown convention. He's always asked to leave."
"You know that suit is one of our national treasures! Also, one more thing," an ignoring Zonk interrupted, momentarily halting the self-exiled man from his exit. "Since you're noble now, there's another Ferengi, on this world, collaborating with the enemy who is in need of some stifling. Surely, his kind of earning is not representative of yours either."
Keeping his gaze to the out, BOB replied, "Careful. Federation morality doesn’t scrub out."
---
BOB walked out into the dreary evening street where he received a communication from his pocketed Starfleet badge. Just as he was about to throw it away, he stopped himself and clicked it.
"This is Captain Samya of the Dropzone," came the voice of a female human. "BOB, we would like to have a word with you when we arrive in-system."
BOB blinked, perplexed. "Oh, fine. The Phoenix-X did decide to not-abandon me at that war-obsessed Deep Space 9, after all. So, Starfleet still gets a benefit of the doubt. But I choose the venue. Night club, full bottle service, Kirk-level shenanigans, Orion slave women. Men, too."
"Let me counter that with: Our Starfleet ship, in a professional setting. No chair. An art statue in the corner that makes no sense."
The Ferengi's brow raised. "That sterile, efficient, cold medium is so non-Ferengi. Zonk would plotz in the way our kind does for comedic effect. Very well."
---
Later, after returning to the Phoenix-X to prepare, BOB was transported to the U.S.S. Dropzone. There, in the Transporter room, he was met with Captain Samya, a human of Japanese-descent and escorted through the corridors.
"Can you tell me why I'm here?" BOB asked. "Can you hint why I'm here?"
Entering the Conference room, BOB took notice of a grey-haired human with Admiral pips. "BOB, this is Admiral Theseus. He oversees broad-view operations of several fleets for the Federation portion of this sector."
"We're calling some of them task forces. Seeing if the term can be interchangeable," Theseus added. "Speaking of things, you've been to Cardassia and the Dominion, correct? What happened at the Dominion?"
BOB nearly stumbled at the intel. "Well, I got lost and my ship was badly damaged by an asteroid belt before I picked up a nearby planet and—"
"You want to try that again?" Samya cut in, suddenly holding a phaser to his head.
The Ferengi put his hands up. "I— I was trading Ketracel white to a lost contingent. It made me question my place in the Ferengi Alliance. Don't shoot, please!"
"Samya's a little renegade-Starfleet at times," Theseus dismissed as she dropped her aim. "Helps me with negotiations. Either way, point made. You still have useful experience."
BOB eyed them. "Like the Alliance, even you humaans go a little too far." And then, realizing, "Hey. You want me to continue being your inside man to give up more Dominion secrets, don't you? I still know things, in the way a fluffy, furbal alien chef may inhabit a lost Intrepid-class ship?"
"Precisely. But, more precisely, you're to be the special counselor to the Captain and are to report anything out-of-sorts directly to me."
The other man crossed his arms. "But I've already served as said-counsel and my contract with you guys is over? Unless— a new agreement!"
"You will get to continue sciencing with us, without the arduous Academy training— which is bogus anyway— as well as having a place in the Federation. Your help with outing Damon Smith saw to that. The only caveat now being your recommission with the Ferengi Alliance, so it's an official exchange program."
BOB slumped. "Bloody caveats. Well, it appears the Alliance is finally, actually willing to indulge me in non-financial exploration. Perhaps satiating Dark Starfleet Needs is a trade-off worth Ferengi appeasement."
"They likely see you as a man on the inside but, to us, the Ferengi Alliance being of any sort of threat is so low, we could not be more secured if we just forwarded them our intel," Samya deadpanned.
Looking up at her, BOB double-taked, "Wow. Is your diplomatic discourse now Pakled, or did we lose it all after the Soveriegn-class?" He shook his head. "Never mind. Turns out your flippancy is, in fact, more of a push for me than a retractor. Therefore, yes, give me the contract. I've got your fingerprint right here."
"Oh, Starfleet exchange contracts are blood samples now," Theseus admitted. "Helps with cloning compliant replacements in the event of repudiation."
As BOB got up and was to be escorted, again by Captain Samya, he stopped to add, "I only wish more people knew an untapped growth environment such as this, unlike the suffocating Alliance, whom is more burgeoning than a clown convention's gorilla suit display. It gets tantalizing hairy, is what I'm saying. Anyway, thank you, Admiral."
"We know all about that popular Ferengi analogy. But, yes, BOB. I get it."
