The Long Mirage

by David R. George III

  Kira nodded, then slowly paced away from him across the lounge. She realized that she not only didn’t know what to say to Altek, she didn’t know what to think or feel either. After seeing him again the prior night, after recognizing him, she’d concluded that his journey out of history, like her own travels through time, must have been effected by the Prophets, but that didn’t mean that she understood why she and Altek had been brought together, either in the past or in the present.

  When Kira reached the gently burbling fountain, she turned back to face Altek. As she formulated what to say to him, he spoke first. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. My mind kept racing through the time we spent together, back during my life on Bajor.” He started toward Kira, but stopped halfway across the lounge and sat down on a bench, setting his padd down beside him. He leaned forward and placed his arms on his knees, his eyes focused on his steepled hands, his manner suddenly serious. “When I first ended up here, on Deep Space Nine, my recollections were confusing and not as sharp as they had been previously, and in the months since, they’ve been dulling even further. It’s harder and harder to visualize the faces of the people I once knew, to recall the places and events that made up my life prior to coming here. But when I saw you last night . . .” Altek looked up, and Kira saw hope in his eyes. “When I saw you, a lot of memories came flooding back . . . memories of you . . . memories of us.”

  “I know,” Kira said. “I mean, I remembered you too. That period of time came back to me, or some of it did, anyway. A lot of it’s still foggy, but I do recall the gild . . . our efforts in Joradell . . .” Her voice trailed into silence. She did not want to reveal how the emotion of that time had welled up within her. Those old feelings seemed genuine, but also peculiar: she had grown to know Altek, and to love him, while in the identity of another person, another life—and yet, somehow, she had still looked the same, had still been herself.

  “I know that this is a strange situation,” Altek said, perhaps reading Kira’s low-level anxiety. “It hasn’t been easy trying to believe what’s happened to me; I would have had less trouble thinking that I’d gone mad. I’ve had to accept that I traveled far into the future, and I’ve had to accept the astonishing reality of my new circumstances.” He sat up and held his arms out wide, palms up. “I’m in a ship, flying from a starbase, through space, to a planet where I once lived hundreds or thousands of years ago, where everybody I ever knew lived . . . and died.”

  Altek dropped his hands down into his lap. He looked defeated. Kira walked forward and sat down beside him on the bench. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It must be incredibly difficult for you.”

  “It is,” Altek said. “But it’s also been getting better, getting easier . . . but then when I saw you last night . . .” He shrugged. “It’s all so confusing. All that’s happened has left me in awe of the Prophets, but I also want to understand what it all means, and I don’t. Why have the Prophets brought me here and now? And what do They expect of me?”

  “I understand,” Kira said. Her designation by the Prophets as Their Hand had come with no list of expectations, no instructions on what she should do or how she should do it.

  “Since seeing you again last night, I’ve also been wondering about your part in all of this,” Altek said. “What was the purpose of you living as Keev Anora?”

  “I don’t think it’s reasonable to think that we can comprehend the will of the Prophets,” Kira said. “But maybe the answer is simple: maybe I was there just to help free Bajorans from slavery.”

  “Maybe,” Altek said, though without conviction. “How much do you remember?” He looked at her beseechingly, revealing without words what he truly wanted to know.

  “I recall things in waves, but so far, my memories haven’t been able to withstand my examination of them. It’s like an image you can perceive in your peripheral vision, but that you can’t see if you look directly at it. I do have a sense of our time together, even if I can’t bring many particulars to mind.” Kira hesitated. Another explanation had occurred to her, but she knew that Altek would resist it. She had to tell him anyway. “I can’t even be certain that what I experienced didn’t happen only in my mind—in our minds—or as some sort of simulation, rather than in reality.”

  “That’s not how it was,” Altek said, rejecting the possibility outright. “We met after I chased you through a wood outside Joradell. You raced to the gild, and I ran directly into their midst. If not for Veralla Sil’s composure, I probably would have been killed right then . . . possibly by you.”

  As Altek spoke, images flashed across Kira’s mind. “I remember at least some of that,” she told him, “but I can’t tell if I’m remembering actual events or something that took place in my mind—an Orb experience, or a pagh’tem’far, or even just a dream.”

  “Our time together wasn’t just a dream,” Altek said definitively.

  Kira could see that he believed that, and in truth, so did she. But she also couldn’t dismiss the other possibilities without cause. Her own life experience had taught her that obvious explanations, no matter how compelling, did not always mesh with reality. And after what Ro had told her about the shape-shifting Ascendant life-form that had taken up residence within the wormhole, she also had to allow for the chance that what she and Altek remembered could have been events in a setting created by that link—like a living holosuite. She could have explained that to Altek, but for the moment, she chose not to, for fear of agitating him even more.

  They sat together quietly for a few moments. Kira considered contacting Jamay and requesting a cabin for herself, just to give Altek some space, to allow him to work out the emotions clearly roiling within him. Or maybe to make it easier on me, Kira thought. She did not find the present situation particularly comfortable, but she didn’t think she should allow such a consideration to outweigh Altek’s obvious distress. “What can I do to help?” she asked.

  Altek met her gaze. “I loved Anora,” he said. “I loved you.”

  The declaration inspired both joy and fear in Kira. She decided to tread carefully. “Anora loved you too,” she said, “but that was a very long time ago.”

  “It hasn’t been a long time for me,” Altek said. “I last saw you just a few months ago.” It had been longer for Kira, she thought, but after her time in the Celestial Temple and in the Gamma Quadrant, she couldn’t precisely pinpoint the interval for her. “I never thought I’d see you again, but I . . . I still love you.”

  Kira’s heart quickened with Altek’s words, but she also felt the conflicting impulse to dash from the lounge. Before she could settle on how to respond, Altek leaned toward her and slowly, gently pressed his lips to hers. Kira recognized the feel of his kiss, and the sensation rekindled the emotions she felt for him.

  Or that Keev Anora felt for him.

  Kira felt wildly uncomfortable with how quickly and unexpectedly she and Altek had gotten to that point. Only the night before, it had been startling to see him again, a man pulled from her hazy past and unexpectedly reintroduced into her present. When they pulled back from each other and gazed into each other’s eyes, Kira decided to say something to slow down the situation. She could not even consider her feelings for Altek until she returned to the life she had built for herself on Bajor, until she had fully acclimated back into her vedek’s existence. Before she could say anything, though, Altek spoke.

  “We should move forward carefully,” he said. “We should get to know each other again. We’ve both been through so much . . . we need time to get used to our reunion.”

  Kira didn’t know if he voiced his actual thoughts on the matter, or if he simply wanted to tell her what he thought she wanted to hear, but she agreed with him, and she told him so. He smiled at her, a forlorn sort of expression that appeared to capture both his ardor and his uncertainty. Those emotions reflected Kira’s own frame of mind.

  In an attempt to get past
the moment, Kira pointed to the padd sitting on the bench beside Altek. “What are you reading?” she asked. Altek picked up the device and activated it. The display showed a conformal map projection of Bajor.

  “I’ve been studying both modern and historical Bajor for months,” he said. “I’ve been trying to find even the slightest correspondence with the Bajor of my time.”

  “Any luck?”

  “No,” he said, then pointed at the map. “The oceans and land masses are essentially the same, and the mountain ranges and rivers seem right, at least from what I can remember, but that hasn’t really helped. All it tells me is what I already know: I’ve traveled into Bajor’s future.” He paused, then added, “I just wish I knew why.” He sounded anguished.

  “I know you do,” Kira said. “Remember that I’m in a similar situation: the Prophets have sent me backward and forward through time, with no roadmap for what I should do.” She did not mention that she believed she had fulfilled her role as Their Hand by facilitating Taran’atar’s arrival at Bajor, aboard Even Odds, in time to thwart the Ascendant attack led by Iliana Ghemor. “I worried about how I could determine what They wanted me to do, but I think now that all I needed to do was to have faith—in Them and in myself—and to believe I would rise to the occasion without trying to put myself in the mind-set of the Prophets.”

  “So when I get to Bajor . . . what?” he asked.

  “Just do what feels right,” Kira said. “The Prophets have laid out a path for you. You may not know where it’s headed, but all you need to do is keep walking.”

  Altek appeared to think about that for a few seconds. “Maybe you’re right,” he said at last. Kira didn’t know if he believed what he said, or if he wanted to convince himself of it, but then he smiled. “I’ll try.”

  iv

  * * *

  Candlewood pulled on the control arm, sending the wheels in the slot machine spinning. He watched contentedly as the pictures hummed past, surprisingly satisfied playing the game of chance. He’d thought that his having no discernible effect on the outcome would necessarily hinder his enjoyment of the diversion. Instead, he found a thrill in the randomness, of the nonzero possibility of winning with no help from skill or strategy. The effort required in hauling down the mechanical arm, the purr of the rotating drums, the blur of the figures—cherries, bells, horseshoes, and ­others—as they spun past, all contributed to the experience. Anticipation gripped Candlewood as the reels one by one thumped to a stop: Cherry. Bar. The number 7. A loser.

  It didn’t matter. The failure to win just strengthened Candlewood’s desire to play, to attempt to recoup his losses. The money, which Nog had provided, meant nothing to him, not just in terms of his living in the twenty-fourth-century Federation, but because his capital existed only holographically.

  “Would you care for something to drink, sir?” The waitress carried a circular tray with a troop of empty glasses atop it. She wore a sequined red blouse above a pleated black skirt. A nametag identified her as DONNA.

  “Yes, I would,” Candlewood said. “I’d like a ginger ale, please.” The waitress repeated his request and made a notation on a pad on her tray, deftly handling her load of glassware. As she began to walk away, Candlewood called after her. “Oh, Donna,” he said, and she looked back over her shoulder.

  “Sir?”

  “Do you know who’s singing in the main lounge tonight?” Candlewood asked.

  “The headliner is Faith Shay,” Donna said. “Her show starts at nine.”

  “Thanks,” Candlewood said, and then, as nonchalantly as he could, he asked, “Didn’t you used to have a man singing in the main lounge?”

  “Yes, but that was a year or two ago. Miss Shay’s been with us for a while now.”

  “I look forward to hearing her.” Candlewood waited just long enough to make his next question appear an afterthought. “Whatever happened to Vic Fontaine?”

  “You know, I’m not sure,” the waitress said. “He must be singing somewhere else in town.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Candlewood said, not wanting to push the issue and draw attention to his questions. He and Nog had spent most of the day in the hotel and casino, occasionally playing various casino games as cover, and casually speaking with employees in an effort to collect information about Vic. They hoped to learn some detail that would help them figure out who had abducted the singer, where they had taken him, and how the two Starfleet officers could free him. To this point, they’d had little success, other than to find out that Vic had probably stopped performing at the Shining Oasis not long after the original Deep Space 9 had been destroyed. Nog wondered if the loss of the station and the subsequent loading of Vic’s program into a simulation tester had caused something within the code to go wrong, but Candlewood had no idea why that would be the case.

  The science officer loaded another coin into the slot machine, then pulled down on its arm. The wheels whirled into motion. Candlewood watched as a set of cherries thumped into place, and then a second set. For an instant, his excitement built, but then a horseshoe appeared in the final position. Still, the machine dropped two coins into the payout tray with a pair of pleasing clinks.

  “Dabo,” said a voice behind him, as though he had just won a jackpot in the Ferengi gambling game. Candlewood looked up to see that Nog had rejoined him.

  “Don’t laugh,” Candlewood said. “This place probably has better payoffs than your uncle’s dabo wheel.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” Nog said. “Have you found out anything?”

  “Not much,” Candlewood said. “The people I’ve spoken with say that Vic stopped singing here within the last couple of years. They don’t know why, and they don’t know where he’s gone.”

  “I got the same information.”

  “So now what do we do?”

  Nog pulled up the cuffs of his shirt and jacket and examined a timepiece he had purchased earlier. “We’ve got a little while before the show starts,” he said. “Let’s try Vic’s apartment again.” Throughout the day, they had knocked on the door to the hotel suite the singer had once called home. They’d received no response, and the corridor had been busy enough that Nog hadn’t wanted to risk breaking in; in their quest to help Vic, they did not need to be detained for any period of time—or worse, end up in jail.

  Candlewood retrieved the cup holding his coins, stood up, and started to walk with Nog, then remembered his last minor victory. He darted back to the slot machine and retrieved his two coins. Before dropping them into the cup, he held them up for Nog to see. “Any profit is good profit,” Candlewood said. “Is that a Rule of Acquisition?”

  “It’s more of an axiom.”

  The two men made their way through the flash and clatter of the casino, until they reached the enclosed walkway to the hotel complex. When they made it to the proper building and suite 107, they found the corridor empty. Nog looked in both directions, then whispered, “If he’s not here, I’m going to pick the lock and let myself in.” Candlewood agreed, then knocked on the door. To his surprise, it opened immediately.

  “Yes?” asked a statuesque redhead.

  Nog’s eyebrows lifted in an expression of possibility. Candlewood assumed that Vic had been known to entertain, and that the operations chief hoped that the woman was one of the singer’s guests.

  “We’d like to see Vic, please,” Nog said.

  “Sorry,” the woman said. “You got the wrong room, fellas.” Candlewood peered past her into the suite. He saw a wall of pink curtains opposite, and a selection of furniture dressed in similar reddish tones, some lighter, some darker, but all distinctly feminine. The woman started to close the door, but Nog stamped his foot down to stop it.

  “Wait,” he said. “Vic Fontaine doesn’t live here?”

  “I told you,” the woman said, annoyance in her tone, “you got the wrong room.”

  “Nog
,” Candlewood said quietly, “look.” The science officer pointed past the woman. “Does that seem like Vic’s décor?”

  Nog ducked his head to the side, to gaze past the woman. After a few seconds, he looked up at her. “Do you know Vic Fontaine?” he asked her. “He used to live here.”

  “Never heard of him,” the woman said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get ready for a date.”

  “Excuse the interruption, ma’am,” Candlewood said. He reached over to Nog and tapped him on the shoulder, urging him to withdraw. Nog stepped back, and the woman closed the door. “I’m sorry,” Candlewood said, “but that didn’t look anything like a place Vic would live.”

  “No, you’re right,” Nog said. “I’ve been here before, when he did live here, and it didn’t look like that.”

  “You shouldn’t be surprised or disappointed,” Candlewood said. “You saw Vic get abducted, and we know from everybody we’ve spoken to that he hasn’t been here for a while.”

  “I know, I know,” Nog said. “I was just hoping that this might still be his apartment, and that we might be able to find some clues about what’s happened.” He sounded disconsolate.

  “Look, we really didn’t expect to learn anything today,” Candlewood reminded him. “Tonight is when you thought we might be able to finally find out something.”

  “Right,” Nog said. “You’re right.” He checked the timepiece on his wrist again. “The show’s about to start.”

  “All right,” Candlewood said. “Then let’s go.”

  v

  * * *

  The woman on stage—long and lean in a sultry wine-colored dress, with wavy dark hair that tumbled down to the small of her back—belted out a song in a way that her predecessor never had. Nog loved Vic’s smooth voice, his velvety tones and punchy phrasing, but Faith Shay delivered her music with impressive power. The operations chief hadn’t really been able to enjoy her singing, though, because he looked forward throughout the show for that first set to come to a close.