The face of Captain Montgomery Scott came into focus as the Starfleet logo faded on Captain Gold’s personal screen.

“You have a wee problem, David?”

“Afraid so, Scotty. Looks like we dug up another one of your old adventures. Remember Landru?”

Scott sighed. “Aye, I remember bein’ stuck on the Enterprise, while the bloody computer shot heat beams at us. If Captain Kirk hadna defeated Landru, our ship would have been sliced into charred strips.”

“Well, Landru just resurfaced—on a Ferengi ship.” Quickly, Gold filled Scotty in.

Shaking his head, Scott said, “Unbelievable, those Ferengi. Although I will admit that it’s odd that you of all people came across it, considerin’ that the S.C.E. as we know it today came about in the aftermath of that old mission to Beta III.”

“I remember,” Gold said. The team that had gone in to put Beta III back together after Landru’s deactivation was a prototype of the current model for the Starfleet Corps of Engineers.

Gold continued. “Unfortunately, I can’t get at our computer logs right now. It’s all Soloman can do to keep us from being taken over. So I need to know how Captain Kirk dealt with the computer back then.”

Scott smiled. “He reasoned with it. He an’ Mr. Spock convinced it that its very existence was contrary to its programming. The bampot machine then upped and destroyed itself.”

Gold raised an eyebrow at this. “They talked it to death?”

“Somethin’ like that, aye. It believed itself to be the embodiment of its creator, the original Landru. When it realized it had so violated his intentions in creating a peaceful society, almost out of shame it shut itself down. I don’t know if that’ll work here, though.”

The Bacchanal had passed; the streets and avenues of the Debenture were littered with wreckage and detritus. Walking through the Boulevard of Nectar and Sustenance (a varied collection of restaurants and bars, the wares of which were spilled and spoiled across the broad avenues of the ship), the away team and their Ferengi companions nodded and acknowledged the now-calm followers of Milia.

Speaking as softly as he could, Forg said, “It won’t be long before Milia realizes what we’re doing. There are about two thousand Ferengi on this vessel. What do you think about those odds?”

“I think that we’ll deal with that if and when we have to.” Gomez tapped her combadge. “Gomez to da Vinci.”

The captain’s voice sounded full of relief. “Good to hear from you, finally, Gomez.”

“Good to be heard, Captain. We’ve been stuck in a shielded area. I think you should know what’s been happening here—”

“Phug was finally forthcoming about that. He told me all about Landru.”

“Tell Phug he has the lobes of a female!” commented Forg.

“Who’s with you?” asked Gold as Corsi shot Forg a look.

“We’ve found a few who aren’t followers of Milia, sir,” Gomez said. “They kept us safe when the Ferengi version of the Red Hour hit.”

“Good. Status?”

“We lost Hawkins to the Milians. One of the Ferengi knocked him unconscious. If we’re lucky he’ll stay out of it until we can resolve the situation. They also don’t intend to limit the return of Milia to just this ship.”

Gold replied, “I know. As it happens, we just heard from Ferenginar. Apparently this ‘Milia’ has told them he’s on the way—they’re none too happy about the prospect. We need to resolve this situation swiftly.”

“We’re on it, sir.”

In the Halls of Commerce on Ferenginar, on the Atrium of Announcements, the babble of voices had hit a higher pitch than had been heard since the legendary dark days of the Great Monetary Collapse.

“Silence!” shouted Senior Adjuster Brumm, a middle-aged Ferengi with fine, wrinkled lobes.

He had been dragged from having these fine lobes massaged by a group of diplomatic handmaidens from Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet. They were currently visiting to negotiate trading and vacation rates with the Ferenginar Alliance. This was his own personal economic project to promote Ferengi interests on worlds of particular sybaritic interest. Pleasure and commerce were forever linked in Ferengi culture.

Forever, he thought mournfully. Won’t be much longer when Milia comes here….

Finally the hubbub quieted down. They looked up at the disheveled Adjuster. “Thank you.”

“Tell us it’s not true!” yelled Bromidge, an elderly Ferengi. Brumm knew that Bromidge’s interests included hard-fought spice and herbs routes into the Gamma Quadrant. Those deals had drained three of his sons’ fortunes—a detail that Bromidge had kept from his offspring, and of which they would remain unaware until the Great Audit took their father away—until this horrific turn of events had occurred and threatened the death knell of Ferengi culture.

Unfortunately, the Senior Adjuster was not in a position to give succor to the massed hordes of Ferengi businessmen gathered before him.

“It is as we have all seen on our screens. The great heretic Milia is returning. These are not some aberrant broadcasts of a cunning plan to undermine Ferengi stocks and create a rash of panic selling….” He paused, wondering why he hadn’t considered this idea himself, as did most in the hall (apart from Bromidge, who was no doubt calculating how thinly he’d have to be sliced to pay off his sons). Brumm continued, “…deplorable as that would be. No, it really is a re-creation of Milia. And he’s coming here.”

The gasp rang through the hall. The chattering and swearing came louder than before, then the accusations started flying.

“It’s a judgment! If we hadn’t gone down the path dictated by Grand Nagus Zek, this would never be happening!”

“Women in clothes! It was a sign of the Great Liquidation!”

“Our latinum is water, our gold is mud! We’ve strayed!”

“Ahem.”

They all turned to see the two figures that now stood next to Brumm. One was Rom—a quite ordinary-looking Ferengi wrapped in the robes of the Grand Nagus, and still not looking comfortable in them even after several months in the role. Next to him stood a statuesque Bajoran female: his wife Leeta, no less stunning for being completely clothed. Brumm, still with the memories of the ambassadors of Wrigley lingering in his mind, had to admit they’d have a ways to go to match her presence.

“Pray silence for your Grand Nagus, Rom!” he cried.

Rom stepped forward. “Uh, hi, everyone. I just thought you all should know that I’ve spoken to my friends in the Federation and they’ve sent out a starship to deal with this situation.”

There was a mixture of cheers and mumbling. The Federation and Ferenginar had always had a strained relationship, with confusion, duplicity, and outright double-dealing making up so much of the history between them. One voice cried out, attempting to rally them.

“I bet they’ve sent the Enterprise! The human Picard has proved a worthy adversary to Ferengi in the past! He’s the one to stop this heretic!”

There were more cheers, the Ferengi warming to the theme.

“Uh, no, actually,” admitted Rom.

The same one—Brumm finally recognized him as Quinton, a young idealistic Ferengi who’d idolized Zek, and saw links with the Federation as the way ahead—thought for a second, as the worried mumbling returned, then brightly exclaimed: “Captain Sisko and the Defiant! He is our champion!”

More cheers responded to this, though Brumm knew that Sisko had, in fact, disappeared after the Dominion War ended and his space station was now run by a Bajoran female who was not (in Brumm’s opinion) nearly as stunning as the Nagus’s wife.

Rom replied, “Uh, no—Captain Sisko is, uh, unavailable now. But it is a great leader and a fantastic ship! Captain Gold of the da Vinci!”

Quinton looked baffled by the name, then thought better of his confusion and so cried out, “Hooray for Captain Gold!” Other Ferengi joined in. The cheering rallied them.

Brumm turned to Rom, and in a soft voice asked, “Who?”

Rom smiled, a warm generous grin. “My son liked him. He said he seemed like a very nice man.”

Brumm blinked. “Oh. Well, there we go.”

Rom raised the Cane of the Grand Nagus. “Carry on trading! Everything will be all right!”

Rom and Leeta left, waving to the amassed businessmen. Brumm gave a polite nod, and headed back to his chambers. We’re entrusting the whole future of our civilization to a human the Grand Nagus’s son thinks is “nice.” We’re doomed….