The Long Mirage

by David R. George III

  vi

  * * *

  As inviting as she found the pictures of the greensward adorning the outer portion of the residential deck, Kira chose an inner corridor to reach the captain’s quarters. The vedek selected the less open route because she didn’t want anybody she knew to see her. She had spent much of the afternoon contacting friends and colleagues, letting them know that she hadn’t been lost inside the wormhole, that she had returned. Those conversations had been emotional, and Kira needed a respite. She hadn’t been able to reach everyone. In some cases, as with the O’Briens and Nog, they hadn’t been available when she’d tried to contact them. In other instances—like that of Cenn Desca—they had left DS9 permanently, and Kira had been unable to find a way to contact them.

  Wearing a conservative clerical robe with its hood raised, she reached the captain’s cabin without being recognized. She activated the visitor’s signal and waited. Kira could simply have reached out to Ro via the comm system, but she wanted to speak with her in person, both to inform her that she would be departing for Bajor in the morning and to thank her—for listening to her story, for believing her, and for helping her to contact the kai and the first minister.

  The door opened. The vedek saw Ro approaching. Kira detected no sign of recognition on the captain’s face, and so she reached up and lowered her hood.

  “Vedek,” Ro said.

  “Captain,” Kira said, “I’d like to speak with you for a moment, if that’s all right.”

  “Of course,” Ro said, glancing off to the side. “Please come in.” The captain took a step back and Kira followed her into the cabin. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, to begin with, I wanted to let you know that, thanks to your efforts, both First Minister Asarem and Kai Pralon contacted me today,” Kira said. “I’ll be traveling to Bajor tomorrow and—”

  “Anora?”

  The single word triggered an instantaneous response in Kira. Both the word and the voice that expressed it elicited an immediate sense of displacement. The moment disoriented her as she snapped her head around to seek out the speaker. She saw a man across the compartment stand up from the sofa while he stared at her, his mouth agape.

  “Keev Anora?” he said, his tone one of incredulity.

  “No,” Ro said, though her voice sounded far away. “This is Kira Nerys.”

  The man seemed to pay no attention to the captain’s statement. Kira studied him, and she knew that she had never before laid eyes upon him. In the next moment, though, an image of the man racing through a dense wood, and then out into a clearing, rose in her mind. “Dans?”

  An avalanche of memories tumbled over Kira. She saw the man—Dans, she thought, Altek Dans—walking through a city, digging in a cave, sitting by a campfire. She saw him, and yet she held on to her recollections only tenuously, as though they might be swept away by the next spill of remembrances.

  The man took a step away from the sofa, and then another. Kira’s own mouth dropped open, and though benumbed and confused, she suddenly became certain that she had—somehow, somewhere—shared something strong and deep with the man before her. He must have seen the look of recognition in her eyes, because he sprinted the rest of the way across the cabin and threw his arms around her.

  Kira returned his embrace. His body felt wholly foreign pressed against hers, and completely familiar. She held the man, and then she let him go. Kira stepped back and looked to the captain, who stood beside the pair, watching and obviously startled by what she saw.

  “This is Kira Nerys,” Ro said again.

  “No,” Kira said, but then she shook her head and started again. “I mean, yes, I’m Kira Nerys, but . . . I am also Keev Anora.” In her mind’s eye, the vedek saw other faces and recalled the names associated with them: Veralla Sil, Jennica Lin, Renet Losig, and others. The gild, Kira thought, almost as though she gathered information by eavesdropping on somebody else’s memories.

  “Are you or are you not Kira Nerys?” Ro demanded.

  “Yes,” the vedek said. “Yes, I’m Kira, but—” But what? she asked herself—and then she knew. “But when I was in the Celestial Temple, for a time I also became a woman named Keev Anora.”

  “And as Keev Anora, you knew Dans?” Ro asked. “But he’s from Bajor’s past, so how is that possible?”

  Kira looked from the captain to Dans. The answer seemed evident. “It’s possible,” the vedek said, “because the Prophets made it possible.”

  vii

  * * *

  Nog strode into Quark’s wearing a dark-gray suit, white button-down shirt, and blue patterned tie, all of which he had just replicated. John Candlewood walked alongside him, similarly attired, in pinstriped navy-blue garb. Earlier that afternoon, after his conversation with Felix Knightly, Nog had visited Candlewood in his quarters to brief him on what the programmer had told him, and to see if the science officer still wanted to help in rescuing Vic and returning the singer’s life to normal. He did. Together, the two men then approached the captain, each asking for a week’s leave. Ro raised an inquisitive eyebrow—Nog knew that Candlewood had once had a crush on him, which might have stirred the captain’s curiosity—but she quickly approved their requests.

  For the remainder of beta shift, the two officers holed up in Nog’s quarters, where they attempted to plot out how they would proceed once they reentered Bashir 62. They pored over land maps of Las Vegas from the 1960s and 1970s, discussed potential strategies for finding Vic, and mulled over what they would do—what they could do—once they located the lounge singer. Nog knew that, after what had happened previously, he probably didn’t need to exact a promise from Candlewood not to issue any orders to the holosuite computer, but he did so anyway; the science officer appeared suitably sheepish and agreed at once.

  After a dinner that Nog suspected might be their last decent meal for days, the two men headed for Quark’s. Gamma shift had begun, and customers packed the place. Along with commingled voices and the ringing of glasses, the sounds of gaming bombarded Nog’s powerful hearing: the whir of the dabo wheel, the shuffling of playing cards, the thumps and chirrups of the dom-jot table.

  With Candlewood in tow, Nog headed for the bar, but as they neared, to his surprise, he did not see his uncle. Instead, Broik and Ulu Lani mixed and served the drinks. Nog threaded his way through the throng of customers until he finally reached the spectacular silvern bar that Quark had acquired from a Saurian craftsman. As though she had been waiting specifically for him—a conceit Nog would have loved to indulge—Lani came right over to him.

  “Hi, Nog,” she said easily, her voice like music. “What can I get you tonight?”

  “Nothing to drink right now,” he said. “I’m looking for my uncle.”

  Lani nodded knowingly. “You’re heading back into the holosuite, aren’t you?” she said. “You’re still trying to restore Vic’s program.”

  “That’s right,” Nog said. He regretted lying to Lani—he doubted that she would view deceit as a proper prologue for what he hoped would eventually be a romance—but he didn’t want anybody to know what had happened within Vic’s holoprogram for fear that Quark would shut it down or reinitialize it.

  “I haven’t seen your uncle since I started my shift,” Lani said. “I’m sure he must be in his office.”

  “Okay,” Nog said. “Thanks.” He pushed off from the bar, but before he moved away, he felt a touch on his hand. He looked back to see that Lani had draped her delicate fingers over his. She gave him a quick, sly smile, then headed down the bar to take a customer’s order.

  “I think she’s after your latinum,” Candlewood whispered in Nog’s ear. Given his abandonment of traditional Ferengi values when he entered Starfleet, the operations chief understood the nature of his friend’s raillery.

  Nog and Candlewood made their way around the end of the bar and back past the open-riser staircase that l
ed up to the second and third levels. He anticipated finding the door to Quark’s office closed, but it stood opened wide. Even more unexpected, he did not see his uncle inside, but Treir. The Orion woman had worked for Quark for nearly ten years, and as far as Nog knew, she currently managed his establishment in Aljuli, on Bajor.

  “Where’s Uncle?” Nog asked from the doorway.

  Treir looked up from where she sat at the office’s freestanding companel console. “I’m fine, Nog, thank you,” she said. “And how are you?”

  “Oh . . . uh . . . I’m well,” Nog stammered. “Sorry. I just wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to be here either,” Treir said. Tall and lithe, she wore a formfitting white dress that reached all the way down to her calves and beautifully complemented her lustrous green skin. “Quark contacted me this morning and insisted that I come to Deep Space Nine at once.”

  “Why?” Nog asked.

  “Quark is preparing to depart the starbase tomorrow morning,” Treir said, “and he wants me to run the place while he’s away.”

  “Where is he going?” Candlewood asked from over Nog’s shoulder.

  “Hello, John,” Treir said. “He didn’t tell me, but I gather that he’s going to be gone for at least a few days, maybe longer.”

  It concerned Nog to learn that his uncle intended to leave DS9 without telling him. Maybe he plans to let me know. Under different circumstances, Nog would have sought out Quark just to check on him, but he saw the opportunity he’d been afforded and he didn’t want to waste it. “Uh, we need to use a holosuite,” he told Treir.

  “Sure.” She consulted the companel, tapped at a few controls, then said, “Take number seven. It’s free until midnight.”

  “We’re going to need it for longer than that,” Nog said, grateful that he didn’t have to make the request of his uncle. “We need dedicated access for at least a few days . . . maybe as long as a week.”

  “I see,” Treir said. “I’d heard that there might be a new installment of Vulcan Love Slave.”

  “No, it’s not that,” Candlewood quickly said.

  “Either way, it doesn’t matter to me,” Treir said with a shrug. She worked the companel again, then said, “I’ve reserved number eleven for you for the week.”

  Nog immediately became suspicious. Where he would undoubtedly have had to argue with his uncle about using a holosuite for such an extended period, Treir had been extraordinarily accommodating. Nog wondered if her easy acquiescence to his request marked an attempt to curry favor with Quark by treating his nephew well, or if she intended somehow to take advantage of her boss, or if she just wanted to vex him. Or maybe she doesn’t even care, Nog thought. He quickly decided that her motivations didn’t matter, that he needed to exploit the situation.

  “Thank you, Treir,” Nog said. “We appreciate it.” He waited just long enough for her to acknowledge his thanks, and then he hurried away, leading Candlewood toward holo­suite number eleven.

  viii

  * * *

  Night had fallen in the holoprogram, leaving the dim illumination of a single bulb to light the hallway. Candlewood saw that the sallow glow softened details, but also that it could not obscure the neglect and filth of the surroundings. The door to room 23—Vic’s room, according to Nog—stood open, just as they’d left it.

  Candlewood watched as the operations chief stepped inside and peered around. “It’s empty,” Nog said. Something inside the room, or maybe outside its window, glowed red, throwing an unnatural radiance across half of Nog’s face.

  “Then there’s no reason for us to stay here,” Candlewood said. Before reentering the holosuite, they had discussed how to proceed. It seemed clear to both of them that in order to rescue Vic, they first needed to know where he was being held, but they would likely need more information than that, such as who had abducted him and why they had done so. Nog made it clear that breaking the singer out of captivity would provide only one part of the solution. For Vic to be able to return to his ordinary existence, whatever complications had led to his kidnapping would also have to be resolved. It would be of little use to free Vic if the danger to him could not be eliminated.

  “Let’s go,” Nog said, motioning toward the far end of the corridor. Candlewood trailed him in that direction, toward the hallway’s single window, then followed him to the left and down a narrow staircase. They descended one flight that doubled back, to a small, roughly square lobby. Chipped and scuffed black and white tiles covered the floor. A door in the center of one wall looked as though it led outdoors, while opposite, a short hallway ran off the lobby. Ahead of them, visible through a lattice of metal bars, a man of indeterminate age sat in a walled-off compartment. A tangle of dark hair nested atop his head, and stubble coated his face. He did not look up.

  Candlewood headed for the door, but Nog stopped him. “Hold on,” the operations chief said, sotto voce. He motioned toward the man in the compartment. “Maybe he knows something.”

  “Maybe,” Candlewood said tentatively. He regarded the man, whose eyes remained downcast. “He doesn’t look like somebody inclined to offer assistance to strangers.” Candle­wood paused, then added, “He doesn’t even look like somebody who’d be much interested in helping his friends.”

  “I tried to speak with him once before,” Nog said, keeping his voice low. “Right after I uploaded Vic’s program from the tester.”

  “You ‘tried’ to speak with him?” Candlewood said. “I take it that means he wasn’t a valuable source of information.”

  “I was called to the Hub before I really got to ask him anything,” Nog said. “Maybe I’ll have better luck this time.” They walked over, and Nog said, “Pardon me. I’m trying to find an old friend who used to stay here.”

  “Good for you,” the man said, still not looking up. Closer to him, Candlewood could see the object of the man’s attention, a paper tabloid on his lap. When he turned a page by first closing and then reopening the broadside, the science officer spotted the words Racing Form splashed across the front.

  “My friend was here until two nights ago,” Nog continued. “He was staying on the second floor, but three large men abducted him—”

  At last the man lifted his gaze. “I don’t know nuthin bout that.”

  “Listen,” Nog persisted, “I’m just trying to find my friend.”

  The man swept the Racing Form to one side and dropped it in a rustle on a small table beside him. “You cops?” he asked. He stood up from his chair, leaned in close to the metal bars protecting him, and peered sidelong into the lobby.

  “We’re not law-enforcement officers,” Candlewood said. “We’re just concerned about our friend.”

  The man pulled back and glared at Candlewood and Nog. “No, you don’t look like cops.” He bent slightly and reached down, out of sight. Candlewood knew what would happen even before the man stood back up with a pistol in his hand.

  “Hey,” the science officer called out. He grabbed for Nog’s arm and pulled him toward the door. As Candlewood turned in that direction, he ran into a circular wire rack. His feet tangled with it, and he fell on top of it as it toppled over, spilling its contents—pamphlets of some kind—across the floor. He quickly tried to scramble to his feet and slipped, but then he felt Nog’s grip around his upper arm, helping him up. Candlewood reached the door and pulled it open, and he and Nog rushed out into the night. They raced along the sidewalk for about a block before it became clear that they were not being pursued. A ground vehicle passed, but neither the driver nor the passenger paid them any attention.

  “What’s happened to this program?” Candlewood asked. “We were shot at yesterday and we almost got shot at again today.”

  “And we can’t afford to get killed again,” Nog said. “We used a back door to enter the holoprogram this time, but Doctor Bashir’s friend was clear: if we ge
t killed again, the code will automatically reset—and, as a consequence, completely delete the character of Vic Fontaine.”

  “I know that this time period and location is a bit rough-and-tumble,” Candlewood said, “but something must have gone very wrong for Vic to stay in a place like that.” He looked back down the block to the building from which they’d just bolted. He saw that the brick structure rose four stories above the dark street, the tallest among its ramshackle neighbors. An anemic red neon sign hung from the side of the building and read FREMONT-SUNRISE HOTEL—or it would have if four of its letters hadn’t been dark. A streetlamp across from the building sparked on and off inconsistently, as though somebody was attempting to use it to send a coded signal.

  “Maybe our fortunes are changing,” Nog said. He held up a rectangle of paper, what looked like a tract of some kind, but Candlewood couldn’t read what it said in the murky light.

  “What’s that?”

  Nog unfolded the paper once, twice, and then he pulled at its ends, expanding it like an accordion. “It’s a map,” he said. Candlewood had spent part of that afternoon in Nog’s quarters studying the layout of 1960s and 1970s Las Vegas, in particular because they could not bring any maps with them. Bashir 62 permitted users to enter the program with little more than the clothes on their backs.

  The two men quickly moved farther down the street, into a circle of light thrown by a functioning streetlamp. After examining the map for a moment, Nog said, “It has hotels and casinos on it.”

  “Do you still want to go to the lounge where Vic used to sing?” Candlewood asked.