Codes: DS9, W, B, Q, Ferengi, humor, SNW reject

Summary: When Bashir does a good deed, he gets rewarded more than
he expected.  Worf's bad deed earns him his own kind of reward.


Good as Gold Pressed Latinum, by Mercutio (mercutio@europa.com)


The promenade of the space station, Deep Space Nine, was cluttered
with refugees.  Again.

Dr. Julian Bashir restrained a sigh.  He was off-duty, on his way
to meet a friend for lunch at Quark's Place, a restaurant-cum-bar-
cum-gambling casino on the Promenade.  And the last thing he needed
to complicate matters and make him late to lunch were a band of
tattered refugees who needed help.

One of them, an old woman in a ragged grey dress looked up at him. 
"Help me, please."

On the other hand, this was what he had dedicated his life to. 
Lunch could wait.

Bashir knelt down next to the old woman, getting on her level. 
"What seems to be the problem?"

She peered up at him, dirty strands of stringy white hair falling
in her face.  "I want something to eat."

He nodded.  "I can get you something to eat.  Are you in any pain?"

"I'm fine, sonny.  But I'm hungry."

"I'll make sure you get something to eat."  Bashir started to stand
up, to go and take care of the problem, but was stopped by her hand
on his arm.

Her grip was surprisingly strong despite the boniness of her hand,
and she drew him back down until he was face-to-face with her. 
"You're a nice boy.  I like you."

"Um... thank you.  I think."

She grinned at him.  "You're good... as gold."

And then she started cackling, laughing hysterically until Bashir
was certain that she was about to hurt herself.  Her breathing was
rapid and uneven as she sucked in huge gasps of air to continue
laughing.

"Are you all right?  Excuse me?"  She didn't stop laughing, and
Bashir stood up, half-turning away as he tapped his comm badge to
call Sickbay.  "Bashir to Sickbay.  I have a possible medical
emergency on the Promenade."

But when he completed his call and turned around, the old woman was
gone.

He looked down the length of the Promenade, and then in the other
direction.  The other refugees were still there, mingling with the
usual travelers and personnel who inhabited the space station, but
he couldn't find the old woman anywhere among them.

Bashir kept looking for a moment longer, then tapped his comm badge
again, this time to call Sickbay and cancel the emergency.

"Bashir..." he started to say, then stopped as he felt something
brush his lip.  Something fell to the ground and thudded at his
feet.  "...to Sickbay," he finished, and two more thuds followed.

He looked down.  Three bars of gold-pressed latinum were resting at
his feet.  Bashir looked up and around for anyone who might be
tossing or dropping such currency, but there was no one above him
in position to do such a thing, and no one near who seemed to be
missing the bars.

"This is Sickbay.  Dr. Bashir, what seems to be the problem?"

Bashir returned his attention to the conversation at hand. 
"The..."  Thud.  "...emergency..."  Thud.  "...is..."  Thud. 
"...over..."  Thud.  "You..."  Thud.  "...can..."  Thud. 
"...stand..."  Thud.  "...down..."  Thud.

Eight more bars of latinum rested at his feet, a small hill of the
precious metal.  Bashir stared at it.  This was incredible.  What
the devil was going on?

"...yes, doctor."  Sickbay was speaking to him.  He heard the last
words and realized that he'd missed the rest of what the ensign had
been saying to his astonishment over the presence of the latinum. 

Bashir knelt down and looked more closely at the bars, picking one
up and examining it.  For all intents and purposes, it looked like
the real thing.  Of course, a spectrographic analysis would be much
more accurate and official, but to his eye, these seemed to be
exactly what they appeared.

He stood up again and looked around.  Still, he could see no one
who looked like they might be the owner of all this wealth. 
Strange.  Very strange.

"What's going on, doctor?" a voice asked from near his elbow.

Bashir looked down.  Quark.  The little Ferengi was already
standing over the pile of latinum, almost drooling as he looked at
it.

"I don't know," Bashir said.  Three bars of gold pressed latinum
fell from his lips, each dropping directly down to hit Quark
squarely on the center of his head.

"Ow!"  Quark skipped back and glared up at the doctor, rubbing his
head and checking his ears for damage.  "You don't have to hit me. 
Why are you carting this much gold pressed latinum around like
this?  You need a bodyguard.  Or a vault."

"It's not mine," Bashir said, and this time he saw it happening,
although what he was seeing was obviously some sort of
hallucination, as three more bars of latinum dropped from his
mouth, narrowly missing the Ferengi as they landed in a little pile
at Bashir's feet.

Quark looked at the bars, then up at the doctor, and started
rubbing his hands together, an avaricious gleam in his eyes. 
"Shall we chat further about that?  Say back at my place?"

"This can't be happening," Bashir said numbly.  "This can't be
happening."

Eight more bars of latinum fell to the floor.  A small crowd was
beginning to gather, staring at the pile of bars lying on the
floor.

"Do you know how much that's worth?" someone in the crowd asked.

Quark turned around and hissed at the spectator who had spoke.  "Go
away.  It's not worth anything."  He stepped closer to Bashir,
grabbing at Bashir's sleeve.  "Let's discuss this back at my place. 
Away from all of these people."

Bashir shook his head, freeing his sleeve from Quark's grasp and
backing away from the people surrounding him, his eyes fixed on the
latinum.  "No."

"Doctor..."

"No," Bashir said, backing away further.

The crowd, led by Quark, surged forward as two more bars of latinum
fell from Bashir's mouth, leaving a trail between the pile of
latinum and where he now stood.

With a sudden indrawn breath of horror, Bashir turned and fled, one
hand over his mouth, keeping in whatever else might choose to fall
out.

****

Lieutenant Commander Worf scowled as he looked at the scene on the
Promenade.

He was on his way to meet someone for a work-out session.  However,
it was impossible to ignore the crowd of screaming brawlers.  All
of the people involved seemed to be converging on one spot.  The
crowd was split between a horde of ragged refugees, Ferengi and
Starfleet personnel, all of whom were fighting loudly over some
unseen object in the center of the knot of people.

Worf started over to find out what was going on as one of the
refugees sitting on the deck looked up at him.

"Help me, please."

He looked down.  It was an old woman in an equally old grey dress. 
He didn't have time for this.  Not with an incipient riot forming
in front of him.  "Not now."

"But I'm hungry.  I want something to eat."

"Find a replicator."  He turned to walk away, already dismissing
her from his thoughts.

"You're a nasty man!" she called after him, her voice shrill enough
to cut through the sound of the crowd.  "You need to learn to be
more friendly!"

Worf ignored the high-pitched cackling coming from behind him as he
plowed into the center of the crowd.

"What's going on here?" he asked gruffly.  He felt something fuzzy
brushing against his face but disregarded it.

As people in the mob began to look around at him, Worf heard the
unmistakable chirping sound of a tribble.  He looked down.  There
were four of the creatures at his feet, about to be trampled by the
crowd.  His lip curled, and he took a step back.  Let the things be
trampled.

"Silence!" he bellowed.

The mob of people began to break up as they saw the presence of
authority on the scene.  As they backed away from the middle of the
conflict, Worf saw what they had been fighting over.

A Ferengi.  Lying on the ground.  Covering several bars of gold
pressed latinum with his body.

Constable Odo appeared at Worf's elbow as if transported.  "What's
going on, Commander?"

"Nothing.  Now."

Odo looked steadily at him, face expressionless.  "What did you
say?"

"I said," Worf repeated, with emphasis, irritated by the
constable's question and by the increased chitter from the tribbles
which unfortunately did not seem to have been trampled, "Nothing is
going on now."

"That's what I thought you said.  Were you aware that tribbles are
coming out of your mouth?"

Worf scowled.  "There..."  Bounce.  "...are..."  Bounce. 
"...no..."  Bounce.  "...tribbles..."  Bounce.  "...coming..." 
Bounce.  "...out..."  Bounce.  "...of..."  Bounce.  "...my..." 
Bounce.  "...mouth."

"Eight more.  You do have a problem, Commander."  Odo looked down
at the tribbles surrounding Worf's feet, all chittering menacingly
at the Klingon with instinctive hatred.  "May I suggest that you
stop talking until a cause for the problem can be found?"

Worf nodded tightly.

Odo looked over at Quark.  "And what do you have to do with all
this?"

"Nothing," the Ferengi said quickly.  "I was just... taking my
latinum for... for cleaning.  And then they tripped me and tried to
steal it from me, Odo!"  Quark sat up, and his voice got louder and
more confident.  "I want to file a complaint.  Those thieves took
my bars of gold pressed latinum and I want them back.  All of
them."

"Certainly.  I'll make sure that all of the stolen property is
returned to its rightful owner."  Odo emphasized the word
'rightful' slightly while staring at Quark.

"I am the rightful owner!" Quark protested.  "I resent your
implication, Odo.  I didn't steal them!  They're mine, all mine!"

"We'll see about that."

****

"And that's the situation, Captain."

Sisko sat back in his chair, surveying the unhappy duo seated in
front of him.  Dr. Bashir and Lieutenant Commander Worf sat side-
by-side before his desk, both wearing equally disgruntled
expressions, their mouths tightly closed.  Odo stood next to the
desk, arms folded behind his back.

"And you say you haven't been able to find this old woman anywhere
on the station?"

Odo nodded.  "The description given to me was rather vague.  I
found several women of approximately the right age among the
refugees, but neither the doctor nor the commander were able to
identify any of them as the woman with whom they spoke."

"Hmm..." Sisko studied the pair again.  "Gentlemen, you appear to
have been cursed."  He glanced back at Odo.  "Continue your search,
constable.  It may be that the woman was disguising herself as a
refugee as a diversion and is actually someone stationed here.  Or
is hiding somewhere.  In the meanwhile," he returned his attention
to Worf and Bashir, "try to avoid speaking.  We don't want another
riot on our hands."

Odo spoke up.  "It might be useful if I assigned someone to watch
the doctor and the commander.  This woman may try to make contact
with them again."

"Good idea.  Let's see what we can turn up."

Odo ushered Bashir and Worf out of Sisko's office, and assigned
each of them a guard.

"Resume your normal routine," Odo advised them.  "Keep in public
view.  If you see the woman again, don't antagonize her.  We'll
take her in for questioning and see this issue resolved.  One way
or the other."

Bashir nodded.  Worf looked grim.

"I'll let you know if I turn up any further evidence."

Bashir and Worf left, guards in tow.  The guards kept a watchful
distance away from their silent charges.

As they made their way back to the Promenade, they passed by
Quark's Place.  In front, blocking the entrance, was a swarm of
Ferengi, all talking furiously.

Quark's voice could be heard over the crowd.  "It's a lie.  Nothing
more than a pack of lies.  Gold pressed latinum coming out of
someone's mouth?  Impossible."

"I saw it myself, Quark," another Ferengi interjected.  "Are you
trying to tell me I'm a liar?"

"Quark just wants to get the latinum for himself."

"I do not!" Quark said loudly.

"Think of all the profit we could make!" another Ferengi said. 
"Gold pressed latinum from nowhere.  At 200 words per minute, and
one bar of gold pressed latinum per word, I could make one million
bars of latinum in a week!"

"That you could make?  That we all could make!  All we have to do
is get control over the doctor and then we can all share the
profits.  There will be enough gold pressed latinum for everyone."

Bashir looked over at them, a nervous expression on his face.

Quark spoke up again.  "If there were any latinum -- which there
isn't -- it wouldn't work.  Think of supply and demand.  If gold
pressed latinum could be produced out of nowhere, it would lose its
value.  If everyone has a million bars of it, then it's worth
nothing."

"Right.  Which is why we have to get to him first."

One of the Ferengi looked over, his eyes widening as he spotted
Bashir.  "There he is!"

The mob broke apart instantly, leaving Quark standing there,
shaking his fist in vain.

Several of the Ferengi walked away quickly, while stealing glances
at Bashir.  The rest mobbed him, asking him questions and pulling
at his tunic with grasping hands.

"How much for your services, Doctor?  We'd pay you well."

"Does gold pressed latinum really come out of your mouth when you
talk?"

Bashir cast a harried look for the guard Odo had assigned to him,
but couldn't see the woman.  He glanced over at Worf, who lent his
assistance by snarling at the Ferengi.  The Ferengi ignored him.

The doctor tried to back away, but there was nowhere for him to go. 
He was surrounded by the Ferengi.

"Over here!" a woman's voice said.  "Follow me."

Bashir turned blindly to obey the voice, Worf behind him.

They stumbled through a door, and suddenly the Ferengi were gone. 
Instead, the old woman stood in front of them, still in the ragged
grey cloak she had been wearing before.  Their guards were nowhere
to be seen.

"You!" Bashir said as he recognized her.  A bar of gold pressed
latinum fell to the floor, and he closed his mouth firmly.

"Yes, me," the old woman said.  "I trust you've been suitably
repaid for your kindness to me."

Bashir's expression was indignant, but he said nothing, keeping his
lips shut.

"You could be quite a wealthy man by now if you used your time
wisely.  Now, come give me a kiss."  She grinned toothily at Bashir
and turned her face up, pointing to her cheek with one wizened
finger.

He took a step backwards, repugnance written on his face.

"You don't have a kiss for an old woman?" she asked, a grotesque
parody of a pout on her face.  "Surely that's not too much to ask
from a good boy like yourself?  Particularly when I saved you from
those loathsome Ferengi."

Bashir looked at Worf who looked back.  The doctor sighed and moved
forward, quickly pecking her cheek.

The woman straightened up -- and grew larger.  Her spine uncrooked
and her hair shortened and grew brown.  Her teeth whitened and her
cloak acquired first a lustre of red, then turned entirely red, a
deep wine color.  But, even as every other attribute of appearance
-- including her gender -- changed, the smile stayed the same.

Worf drew his phaser as the "old woman"'s new form was revealed,
hissing from between his teeth, "Q."

Q kicked the new tribble contemptuously away from his feet. 
"Amazing that you could recognize that, Microbrain.  Your mentality
is so limited after all."  His smile got broader and he tipped his
cheek towards Worf.  "Come give Q a kiss, and your tribble problem
will be solved."

Bashir turned to look at Worf, who glowered.

"I am not kissing him," Worf said darkly.

Five tribbles fell to the floor, joining their mate, all six now
chittering wildly at their proximity to a Klingon.

Q drew back, and flipped his hand disdainfully in Worf's direction. 
"Just as well.  Stupidity is frequently contagious.  Consider
yourself cured.  I hope you learned something from this."

Worf drew his phaser, and Q shook his head sorrowfully. 
"Apparently not.  Ta-ta."

He snapped his fingers and disappeared in a flash of light.  When
the brightness cleared, Q was gone.

Worf bent down grimly and picked up the tribbles, which chittered
in wild agitation.

"What do you intend to do with those?" Bashir asked.  Nothing
dropped from his mouth, and he smiled in relief.

"Make tribble shish-kebab," Worf growled.


-the end-