They Took Their Time To Find Nothing
Posted on 04 Sep 2022 @ 4:19pm by Brek - Timeless Treasures Art Gallery
Edited on on 04 Sep 2022 @ 4:26pm
Mission:
M3 - Into the Deep
Location: OC, Customs and Promenade
Timeline: MD06 0700hrs
966 words - 1.9 OF Standard Post Measure
It should have taken no more than 20 minutes for the Customs Officers to let Brek go, but he had been asked to stay in a little waiting room for 40 minutes now. The Station was on yellow alert, he had been told. But what the hell were they all doing? Sure, he had nothing to worry about, his credentials were in good order, but as he was unable to stay still even at the best of times, he paced the room like an animal in a cage.
He would go to the replicator, back to his seat, observe his reflection in the black mirror in front of him (a short Ferengi wearing an expensive yellow and blue jacket, with a perpetual scowl etched on his face). And then make a new attempt at drinking the terrible coffee he had replicated a few minutes ago. That thing, it was like thick tar. There was no other way to describe it. Every time his lips touched the cup, he produced a grimace that revealed all his crooked teeth. Piranha teeth, as some hewmons liked to say.
At one point, while he had been observing his perfectly manicured hands he heard footsteps approaching the door, but they soon receded, and Brek let out an agonizing sigh. What hurt was that Glutik, travelling with him (a Tellarite male who served as his gofer), had been allowed to proceed beyond customs in no time at all. Of course, Glutik wasn’t Ferengi...
Ten minutes later, the doors finally opened and a Vulcan officer entered, his face perfectly neutral. He was consulting a PADD with great care.
“Is there a problem?” Brek asked.
“You are the owner of three containers that arrived this morning, from the passenger ship called Hydra, is that so?” The officer set his dark impassive eyes on him.
“Absolutely.”
“We need to open them.” When Brek didn’t react to his words, the Vulcan continued: “Please follow me.”
The officer took him to a maze of narrow corridors that seemed to go nowhere at all. They went one direction and the other or up and down, and they smelled funny. Damp, somehow. Like most offices on Ferenginar, and they left a ghastly impression on Brek.
They finally emerged in a vast cargo bay, where Brek’s containers stood out in all their glory. Them being painted in a bright orange color. There were also, on them, countless labels that said ‘Fragile’ in every possible language. Those containers were surrounded by five Customs officers.
“Password, please.” The Vulcan asked.
“You are wasting your time, I can assure you...” Brek started to protest.
The Vulcan silenced him with a blank stare. One that clearly demonstrated that he had all the time in the world and delaying the inevitable was futile.
“All right, all right!” Brek capitulated, his voice an ugly shriek. “By all that is precious! I’ll comply.”
Moments later the containers were opened and the customs officers were inside them, examining all his treasures: The paintings, ancient vases, furniture, sculptures and a vast collection of bric-a-brac that even he sometimes called junk. Without surprise, all those officers, they took their time to find nothing, and at long last, they let him go.
< b >< center >.: [[Little Café on the Promenade]] :.< /center >< /b >
Some time later, Brek found Glutik, sitting on a terrace (basic wooden tables and chairs - what’s known as a beer garden, really), enjoying a full breakfast (beans, toasts and bacon). He joined him, mumbled ‘I don’t believe it’ in Ferengi, and then he kept silent.
“You want some, Boss?” Glutik asked, indicating the copious pile of food on his plate.
“Can’t be bothered,” he replied. “I lost my appetite, along with my dignity.”
The Tellarite observed him with concern. “Surely, the gentlemen at Customs did not... they didn’t er... give you the full treatment... did they?”
“What are you talking about? Those lunatics kept me waiting for two hours. Me, who’s perfectly innocent! That’s 120 minutes where I wasn’t in business.”
“That innocence, it isn’t written on your face, boss, you know that. Here, have a toast with beans. It’s delicious.” The tellarite, who was bald, had a long red beard (his pride), and in it, there were tiny bits of bread and bacon.
Brek glanced at the food with great disdain. Food for the poor he called that. He would have to be truly starving to touch it. Plus, eating with Glutik was always a trial, what with his nonexistent manners and dubious tastes.
“Anywayz,” Brek added, his arms now folded on his chest. “You are a great disappointment, Glutik. I asked you to give me a complete list of the businesses on OC’s Promenade. And you missed three of them, including Surrat Gallery, run by a terran hewmon, looks like. We have competition!”
“Competition is good. It makes us work harder and better. That’s what they say.” Glutik remarked, before eating a large piece of bacon.
“Who’s ‘they’?” Brek asked, surprised. “Have you already met some of the locals?”
“The books say that. I’ve seen a few people, obviously, but none of them stopped to talk to me. You know how it is with my species. We aren’t too... engaging...”
“Dagnabbit, I have had enough.” Brek complained as he got to his feet. “You stay here and enjoy your food. I’m going to explore the Promenade on my own. I don’t want to see you for a few hours. Understood?”
“Clear as crystal, Boss, if it’s what you want...”
“It sure is.”
Those words said, Brek walked away, eager to see his investment: the property he had bought on O.C.
