Fools Gold

The Profit Plaza night market was still roaring at 2300 hours, neon signs blazing through the humid marsh fog that rolled in from New Ferenginar's endless swamps. Street vendors hawked glowing skewers of tube grubs, bootleg bloodwine, and vials of authentic Kanar that was probably replicated on a cargo hauler last week. The air thrummed with haggling and laughter and the occasional shout of a cheated customer.

Zedd had come planetside to clear his head, or drown it, depending on how the night went. The Dutchman sat quiet in orbit with one new crew member already meditating her way through star charts, but the rest of the stations were still empty. After a long day of sifting through bad applications he had decided hard liquor was the only honest company left.

He leaned against the polished counter of The Golden Lobe, an open air bar wedged between two towering holosuite arcades. The place was packed with off duty merchants and privateers and pilots blowing hazard pay. Zedd's leather jacket was slung over the back of his stool, sleeves rolled up, a half empty glass of genuine Earth bourbon in his hand, real stuff, smuggled, expensive, and worth every strip of latinum.

He was three deep and working on four when a voice cut through the noise beside him.

"Mind if I squeeze in, Captain? Place is tighter than a Ferengi's wallet."

Zedd turned and had a look. A young human, early twenties, lean, dark hair tousled like he had just climbed out of a cockpit, grinned at him. Hazel eyes sharp with confidence and just enough alcohol to loosen the edges. Flight jacket patched with New Ferenginar guild logos, boots scuffed from shuttlebay decks.

Zedd gestured to the empty stool with his glass. "It's a free market. Grab it before someone tries to charge you rent."

The kid laughed and slid in and signaled the bartender for the same bourbon. "Cormus Fletcher. Support craft pilot. I saw your posting up on the orbital boards, the Dutchman, Berth 47-A, profit share, no fixed allegiance. I figured the captain might be planetside celebrating his new navigator."

Zedd raised an eyebrow and swirled the amber liquid. "Word travels fast."

"Cantina Row gossip travels faster than warp nine when latinum's involved." Cormus's drink arrived and he lifted it in a salute. "To new ventures."

They clinked glasses and the bourbon burned clean.

Zedd studied him for a second. "You any good, Fletcher, or just thirsty?"

"Both. I had two years as Starfleet enlisted, shuttles and runabouts until I could fly them blind. Got out, ran privateer gigs in the Beta Quadrant, then came through the wormhole for the real credits. Been flying New Ferenginar local runs for nearly two years now. Ferengi want it fast and cheap and I deliver it fast and alive."

Zedd nodded slowly and let the bourbon warm his chest for a second. "Dutchman carries six Type-11s, a Danube class, four Workerbees I can arm if needed. You any good at hot drops? Nebula threading? Getting out when someone starts shooting?"

Cormus's grin sharpened at that. "Hot drops are my love language. Last month I yanked a survey team off a failing moon in the Tautine belt, a Dominion remnant patrol showed up looking for leftovers, and I flew three shuttles through a debris storm while they lit up my shields. Everyone walked away and the client paid triple."

Zedd took a slow sip. "No losses?"

"Minor hull scoring. The client called it character."

Zedd chuckled at that, low and genuine. "I like you kid. You've got the right kind of stupid."

Cormus leaned an elbow on the bar. "So what's the deal then? The posting said profit share and I'm not here for a salary, I want equity. Skin in the game."

The bourbon was making numbers feel a little more negotiable than usual. Lindsy had locked in 3.8 percent and she was the backbone of the operation. A pilot this sharp and this hungry was a different calculation.

"Two percent," Zedd said. "Net proceeds, same clean ledgers as the rest of the crew. You keep the bay humming and get us in and out of places we shouldn't be and you earn it. Plus full run of the shuttles for whatever tweaks you dream up."

Cormus tilted his head and considered it through the pleasant haze. "Three."

Zedd snorted. "You're drunk."

"You bought the round."

"Touché." Zedd drained his glass and signaled for two more. "Two and a half."

Cormus shook his head. "Two and three quarters. But I get first pick of the Type-11s and your word that I can tune the runabout's impulse drivers without you hovering over my shoulder about it."

Zedd looked at the outstretched hand and then broke into a wide grin. "Deal. Two point seven five percent. Welcome to the Dutchman, Fletcher."

They shook on it, firm and warm from bourbon with a little sway in both of them.

Cormus exhaled like he had been holding his breath for a while. "When do I report?"

"Tomorrow. 1800 hours orbital time, Berth 47-A. Bring your gear and a hangover remedy." Zedd paused with his glass halfway to his lips. "And if you fly half as good as you talk we're gonna make some beautiful trouble together."

Cormus raised his fresh bourbon. "To the Dutchman."

"To the Dutchman," Zedd said and they drank.

The night market noise swelled back around them, vendors shouting closing deals, holosuites blaring victory fanfares, marsh fog curling in under the neon lights. Somewhere up above the Dutchman waited in quiet orbit.

Zedd signaled for another round and didn't think too hard about any of it.