I Know Who You Are
Posted on 09 Mar 2023 @ 7:00pm by Brek - Timeless Treasures Art Gallery
Edited on on 10 Mar 2023 @ 1:41pm
Mission:
M3 - Into the Deep
Location: Timeless Treasure - Gallery & Brek’s Office
Timeline: MD10 - Morning
1823 words - 3.6 OF Standard Post Measure
Brek entered his gallery with mixed feelings and several large bags containing recent purchases: three overpriced suits. The best available in the quadrant he had been told. One was black, the other dark grey and the last one a dark blue that almost looked black. Very sober they were. Gone were the reds, yellows and silvers that he preferred. Elegance, he had been told, came at a cost beyond latinum: an exuberant personality had no reason to be. Any trace of individuality could only be expressed in minute details such as the number of buttons, (the less the better), the shape of the lapels and the position of the pockets. Who would have thought there was so much to consider when those garments looked almost identical?
On top of this, although the experience of buying those suits had been pleasant (the accommodating tailors had provided him with a glass of wine - a Negroamaro from South Italy) their bright smiles and cheerful remarks had vanished the moment his payment had been made. Then, all he received from those gentlemen were cold stares, indicating that it was time for him to leave. This seemed to happen to him every time he bought something. Once merchants had his money, they didn’t want to know him anymore.
When he made it to the reception desk, Nyasha was saying goodbye to two Terran men dressed like perfect businessmen. That is to say, there was no trace of originality, whatsoever, in their clothes.
“What did we sell?” He asked, hoping his holo-assistant would quote a juicy figure.
“Nothing, Mister Brek. Those people were just prospecting, I think,” she replied, with a little frown that left her looking as charming as ever. “They first asked about traditional Terran art, and then they encouraged me to install better insulation in the gallery. They even suggested we reinforce it, to be attack and fire proof. 20% off if we sign by the end of the week.”
“Would you believe it...” Brek hissed. “More peddlers on my own doorstep!” He dropped his bags and fetched a PADD. “Stay still, Nyasha, I’ll upgrade your communication skills. We can’t have you being meek and passive when that sort of offence happens.”
Once he had tweaked the settings of his holo-assistant to a satisfying level, he noticed a data rod on the desk. Although Cardassian in design, this model was obviously from Ferenginar because there was an advertisement on it: ‘GoldBlaze Backup - No Hidden Charges!’. “What’s that?”
“Oh, this was delivered this morning.” Nyasha told him.
Thoughtful as she looked now, Brek gathered she was checking what additions he had made to her personality core. She would find new functions like sales demoing, problem solving and effective communication.
“By which courier service?”
“None. A boy, average age 10, passed by, some two hours ago and he left this item to the attention of Mister Brek.”
“And you never thought of asking him his name or who sent him here?”
“I didn’t see the point. Though I do now that you have augmented my communication skills.”
She gave him a commercial smile and Brek grumbled something incomprehensible. He took the data rod and, leaving his precious bags behind, he stormed out of the gallery and into his office.
Wondering if the message had anything to do with Ferengi artist Kreca, Brek plugged the datarod to his computer. When a view of his old school appeared on the screen (four large cubes, about as pleasant to look at as those used by the Borg), he involuntarily stepped back. The abhorrent place was called ‘Bold and in Business! - Learning Center’. With its high fence and barbed wire the school wasn’t afraid of advertising its purpose. It was essentially a prison for young Ferengi males, whose relatives had committed a grave offence: they weren’t wealthy enough to send their offspring to a decent boarding school.
It was situated in the middle of a large mud plain, and around that vast expanse of sticky mud, there were a great variety of bogs, ferns, swamps and marsh, each with their not very delicate ecosystem (illegal dumping being pretty much a national sport on Ferenginar). Civilization could only be found beyond those, some 25 miles away, with a wondrous town called Fogh, which every boy dreamed of visiting. Kids and their silly dreams... He had escaped three times to that town during his teen years and three times he had been dragged back to the learning centre.
Under that terrible image, the words ‘I know who you are’ appeared at the bottom of the screen.
“You do?” Brek wondered aloud.
After years of doing his best to forget his formative years, it was difficult for him to recall how life had been within those walls. Two things surfaced though: the constant smell of boiled vegetables that permeated the place and a latent fear of being out of business. If latinum wasn’t rolling your way, you couldn’t pay for your meals, you couldn’t fend off bullies either. Hence the importance of becoming an excellent Ferengi: you lied and you stole and you invented numerous scams so that you could survive another day, another week, another month.
Usually by age 15, a student had developed their own little empire - it was either that or you were forced to live like a hireling; a sort of hell he had, thankfully, never experienced. His trade, back then, had been to catch and sell gree-worms. You can make nice meals with those, but it takes some skill not to have your fingers chopped off by those critters, for they have sharp teeth. This had taught him to always move fast. Never think twice about what you are going to do. Just do it, and regret nothing. You can’t do that as a diplomat of course, so over the years, he had put a lot of water in his wine. The thought made him smile because he needn’t do that anymore now. He was, essentially, a free man. He could do what he pretty pleased.
The next image was odd: a copy of his birth certificate.
A call made him jump, and he recoiled once more when the wrinkled face of his grandmother appeared on the screen.
“We are being blackmailed!” She announced in lieu of introduction. “I take it you have received the same images as I have? A nasty rodent has stolen several files from one of my vaults. I have a fair idea who this might be. The thief will pay dearly for his impudence!”
“I don’t feel particularly threatened,” Brek said, nonplussed. “Sure, it’s not pleasant to be reminded of that stink hole where I spent my childhood. So what, though? Hundreds of other kids shared the same fate. Not everyone is born lucky.”
“It could have been worse,” Ara countered.
“If you put it that way, it could also have been better.” Brek added as he took place in his comfortable chair. “You spoke of blackmail... Have you been asked to pay a ransom?”
“Not yet. Our malefactor most certainly wants us to worry about those images.”
“I’m not worried. Why should I be? Federation facilities don’t give a fig how I was schooled on Ferenginar.”
“It is just as well, but other people within our Alliance will take a different view on all this,” Ara continued. She sighed as heavily as a bad actress and she went on: “Do you remember our talk, some eight years ago? You were on shore leave and I made a special trip to join you in the holodeck, where some celebratory nonsense was taking place?”
“It was a promotion ceremony,” Brek corrected her.
“To quote Hewmons: Tomayto, tomahto... We had an important talk that day.”
“Let me see... It’s when you gave me grandad’s piercing stuff, isn’t it? You told me: the father of my mother was your fourth husband. No need to press the panic button. I’ve still got his needles, pliers, forceps, and hemostats. Haven’t touched them one bit. They are somewhere, in storage. Do you want them back?”
“I don’t give a pin about those. That day we also talked about your mother’s husband.”
Brek sat back, (his way to prepare himself mentally for a long conversation with granny). “Right, my dad... Jeeze... There’s not much to say about him, is there? Last I heard, he still mostly lives in casinos. Keeps himself busy by not making a living in those places.”
She checked the security of their communication, and then moved on to a long ramble about Vekkor (the notorious gambling addict) not being his biological father. This honor belonged to Neraz, a casino magnate, who, 36 years ago, had an affair with his mother.
“Well, it wasn’t really an affair.” She insisted on telling him, as if he cared what his mother ever did in her spare time. “We refer to it that way because it sounds better. In actual fact what she did was pay a gambling debt. On his instigation she spent a week with Neraz. You were born nine months later.”
To hear about your mother’s ‘exploits’ is always a weird experience, and a nasty grin appeared on Brek’s lips. “This is something I truly didn’t need to hear. The last thing I care about in the universe is what my parents did, what they do now, and what they are likely to do tomorrow. They abandoned me when I was 3. Three! If you say another word about them, this will mark the end of this conversation.”
Ara mimicked his grimace, giving the impression that this particular look ran in the family. “You have every right to be incensed, little beetle. When it became clear that you weren't his son, Vekkor cast you away... The pressing matter here is that someone else seems to know that Neraz is, more than likely, your father. If his legitimate sons hear about the existence of a new potential heir, your life could be in danger."
Brek blinked. The notion that he might be the son of a powerful magnate tickled his ego. It certainly sounded better than being related to a loser like Vekkor, even if it was best not to say anything about it
"What are you plotting?" Ara asked after two minutes of silence.
"Not much. Catch your thief and don't worry about me. I have a good Tellarite bodyguard, and only good things are going to happen to me."
"I wish I could share your optimism. I'll contact you again as soon as the situation has improved."
The screen went blank and Brek rubbed his hands. His pedigree wasn't that rubbishy after all...
