“Don’t you watch the newsfeeds?”
Kurrgo snarled. “No, but I have heard people talking. I thought it was just talk, though, not action.”
“It is now. The tariff has gone up by a thousand leks.”
“So why have they impounded your ship?”
Lig’s eyes went wider than Kurrgo had thought them capable of getting. “Because I don’t have a thousand leks in my pocket, you idiot! Plus, they’re levying additional fines for violating the tariff law, not to mention storage charges for the impound.”Smiling grimly, Lig added, “There are so many additional charges, you’d think this was a Ferengi customs-house.”
“I’m glad you admire them.”
“Mind you, they didn’t say anything until they found thetarg s. Until then, everything was business as usual. As soon as they saw that, though, they started double-checkingeverything, down to the stembolts. And let me tell you, the extra charges all applyjust to thetarg s.”
Kurrgo sighed. “What are you going to do?”
“What amI going to do? I’m going to sit here and wait for you to come and pay all these fees so I can have my ship back. Then you can have your blessedtarg s and I can get out of this madhouse.”
Kurrgo was outraged. “You expect meto pay yourtariffs? I thought that was covered in our agreement!”
“This is a special case.”
“No, Lig, it is not.” Kurrgo leaned into the viewer. For emphasis, he grabbed a carving knife. “I have already paid for those targs. Our contract obligates you to pay anytransportation fees or tariffs. You are within your rights to charge me for the goods based on what you’ll have to pay, but you cannot change the price of delivery after full payment has been made.”
Lig sighed. “Leave it to me to go into business with the one Klingon who actually reads his contracts.”
“I’m a businessman just like you, Lig. Except, of course, that I’m better with a knife than you.” He started twirling the knife in a manuever that looked like he was about to cut his—or somebody else’s—hand off. “And if I don’t get my goods, I will declare you in breach and report it to the FCA.” He smiled, twirling the knife some more. “Liquidator Gant is one of my more reliable customers.” Gant was one of the Ferengi Commerce Authority’s agents in charge of external affairs, and he had developed a taste for bregitlung. Every time he visited Cardassia Prime—which was usually at least three times a year—he had all his meals at Kurrgo’s.
“Fine, sic Gant on me,”Lig said, sounding less intimidated than Kurrgo would have liked. “It doesn’t change the fact that I can’t get at my ship and you can’t get at yourtarg s unless these fees are paid, and I can’t pay them. Either you come here with the money, or we both lose.”
Much as Kurrgo hated to admit it to himself, the little toDSaHwas right. “I’m in the middle of the dinner crowd right now. I’ll send Amon.” Amon was the head waiter, a wily Cardassian who was smart enough to not let Lig cheat him and Cardassian enough to not be gouged too badly by the customs officers. It meant he’d be two waiters down—unless Larkan had somehow materialized in the last five minutes—but it was better than being out a shipment of targs. “He’ll bring a chit. Whatever we pay to customs will be an advance against payment of the next shipment.”
“Just send him quickly. I’ve got perishables in there.”
Kurrgo felt a momentary panic. “Aren’t the targs in stasis?”
“They are, yes. What, you think you’re my only client on Cardassia? If that were the case, I’d’ve gone out of business years ago. As it is, if these tariffs keep up, there may notbe a next shipment.”
Only the fact that Lig had been making the same threat for years prevented Kurrgo from worrying overmuch about him making it again.
At least until he added: “I’m serious this time, Kurrgo. The way things are going, a Ferengi can’t make an honest living going back and forth between Qo’noS and Cardassia. I may have to find a less—troubled trade route.”Before Kurrgo had a chance to reply to that, Lig signed off.
Damn him and his oversized ears.He summoned Amon to his side, handing him a blank credit chit. “Take this to the customs-house. Lig will meet you there. Find out from the customs officerswhat fees need to be paid. Pay everything directly to them. Do not put a single lek into Lig’s pocket, is that understood?”
Amon smiled. “Of course.”
He left. It’s not like I need all my waiters tonight in any event,Kurrgo thought sourly, looking at all the empty tables. Usually this was the busiest time of night, yet only a quarter of the restaurant was full. He looked around the restaurant walls, covered as they were with assorted Klingon memorabilia: weapons, Klingon artwork, a fake SoSnI’tree, and more weapons. Perhaps I should make the décor more Cardassian.
His redecorating thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of three men and one woman wearing military uniforms.
No, there was a fifth with them—a stooped-over figure whose face Kurrgo could not see. At first, Kurrgo thought they were bringing a drunk in off the street, especially since the fifth figure wore civilian clothing.
Kurrgo scowled. He had little use for this world’s military. Klingon soldiers were warriors, creatures of honor and duty, worthy of the highest place in Empire society. Cardassian soldiers, though, were just thugs with uniforms. Upon the newcomers’ entrance, he immediately moved to the front of the restaurant to greet them before they could come any further inside. “What do you want?” he asked, trying to maintain at least a facade of pleasantness, though he clenched his fists so tightly, his fingernails drew blood.
“This creature says he belongs to you, Klingon,” one of them said. He gave a signal to the one dragging the fifth figure, who tossed said figure to the floor between him and Kurrgo.
Only then did Kurrgo get a good look at the figure, and realized that it was a Klingon, his face bleeding from several cuts and covered in bruises, one eye completely sealed shut from the swelling.
It took him a moment to recognize Larkan.
“He is one of my waiters!” Kurrgo knelt down to check on the young man. He was breathing normally, if a bit raggedly.
“I—am—all—right,” Larkan managed to say, spitting out blood and a tooth or two as he did so.
Standing upright, Kurrgo faced the lead Cardassian. He kept an old disruptor pistol in the back room, but he’d never get to it in time. Even the bat’lethon the west wall was too far to do him any good. Besides, I will not endanger my customers.“Who did this to him?” he asked, knowing the answer.
“He was out after curfew.”
Kurrgo blinked. “What curfew?”
“The curfew that was announced this afternoon. All Klingons are to be indoors after sundown. No exceptions.”
Tightly, Kurrgo said, “I was not informed of this.”
The officer looked around. “Yes, I can see that you don’t have any monitors in here. Why is that, I wonder?”
“My customers come here to get away from Cardassia, to get a taste of tlhInghan’a’.”There was no adequate Cardassian way of expressing the word, which basically meant “Klingon-ness.” “To have a Cardassian face prominently displayed would spoil the ambience.” Clenching his fists once again, he added, “I have all the necessary permits to—”